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BOOK    8  17.2. IRS   v.3    c.  1 

IRVING    #    WORKS    OF   WASHINGTON 

IRVING 


3  T153  00157612  1 


I 


V3 


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http://www.archive.org/details/sketchbookofgeof1880irvi 


SUNNYSIDE. 


HE   SKETCH  SOO, 


BY  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


HUDSON  EDITION  "^^Qi 


k^ 


THE 


SKETCH-BOOIi 


OP 


GEOFFREY   CRAYON,  Gekt 


**I  have  no  ■wife  nor  children,  good  or  bail,  to  provide  for.  A  mere  spectator  of  other 
©ea's  fcrxua^:?  and  sivfintiares,  and  Low  they  play  their  parts,  which,  inetaUikB,  are 
diversely  presented  unto  me,  as  from  a  comnioG  theatre  or  scene."— BufiTOtr. 


TEE  A  UTHORS  RE  VISED  EDITIO]^ 


NEW  YORK 

G.   P.    PUTNAM'S    SONS 

27  AND  29  ^YEST  23D  Street 


COFTBISHT 

1S60 
BV  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


The  Author's  Account  of  Himself 15 

The  Voyage 20 

RoscoE 29 

The  Wife 39 

Rip  Van  Winkle 50 

English  Writers  on  America 77 

Rural  Life  in  England 90 

The  Broken  Heart 101 

The  Art  of  Book-making 109 

A  Royal  Poet 119 

The  Country  Church 140 

The  Widow  and  her  Son 148 

A  Sunday  in  London 159 

jThe  Boar's  Head  Tavern,  Eastcheap 162 

!The  Mutability  of  Literature 179 

Rural  Funerals 195 

The  Inn  Kitchen 213 

The  Spectre  Bridegroom 215 

Westminster  Abbey 338 


4  CONTENTS. 

TAtta 
''^Christmas 254 

The  Stage  Coach 263 

Christmas  Eve 272 

Christmas  Day. 289 

The  Christmas  Dinner 309 

London  Antiques 330 

Little  Britain 339 

Stratford-on-Avon 361 

Traits  of  Indian  Character 889 

Philip  of  Pokanoket 406 

—^ohn  Bull 431 

The  Pride  of  the  Village 448 

The  Angler 461 

The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 474 

L'Envoy 532' 

Appendix 527 


Peeface  to  the  Revised  Edition. 


HE  following  papers,  witli  two  exceptions,  were 
written  in  England,  and  formed  bufc  part  of  an 
intended  series,  for  which  I  had  made  notes 
and  memorandums.  Before  I  conld  mature  a  plan,  how- 
ever, circumstances  compelled  me  to  send  them  piece- 
meal to  the  United  States,  where  they  were  published 
from  time  to  time  in  portions  or  numbers.  It  was  not 
my  intention  to  publish  them  in  England,  being  con- 
scious that  much  of  their  contents  would  be  interesting 
only  to  American  readers,  and  in  truth,  being  deterred 
by  the  severity  with  which  American  productions  had 
been  treated  by  the  British  press. 

By  the  time  the  contents  of  the  first  volume  had  ap- 
peared in  this  occasional  manner,  they  began  to  find 
their  way  across  the  Atlantic,  and  to  be  inserted,  with 
m^ny  kind  encomiums,  in  the  London  Literary  Gazette. 
It  was  said,  also,  that  a  London  bookseller  intended  to 
publish  them  in  a  collective  form.     I  determined,  there- 

5 


6  PREFACE. 

fore,  to  bring  them  forward  myself,  that  they  might  at 
least  have  the  benefit  of  my  superintendence  and  revi- 
sion. I  accordingly  took  the  printed  numbers  which  I 
had  received  from  the  United  States,  to  Mr.  John  Mur- 
ray, the  eminent  publisher,  from  whom  I  had  already 
received  friendly  attentions,  and  left  them  with  him  for 
examination,  informing  him  that  should  he  be  inclined  to 
bring  them  before  the  public,  I  had  materials  enough  on 
hand  for  a  second  volume.  Several  days  having  elapsed 
without  any  communication  from  Mr.  Murray,  I  addressed 
a  note  to  him,  in  which  I  construed  his  silence  into  a 
tacit  rejection  of  my  work,  and  begged  that  the  numbers 
I  had  left  with  him  might  be  returned  to  me.  The  fol- 
lowing was  his  reply : 

My  dear  Sir, — 

I  entreat  you  to  believe  that  I  feel  truly  obliged  by  your  kind  inten-> 
tions  towards  me,  and  that  I  entertain  the  most  unfeigned  respect  for 
your  most  tasteful  talents.  My  house  is  completely  filled  with  work-peo- 
ple at  this  time,  and  I  have  only  an  office  to  transact  business  in  ;  and 
yesterday  I  was  wholly  occupied,  or  1  should  have  done  myself  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  you. 

If  it  would  not  suit  me  to  engage  in  the  publication  of  your  present 
work,  it  is  only  because  I  do  not  see  that  scope  in  the  nature  of  it  which 
would  enable  me  to  make  those  satisfactory  accounts  between  us,  without 
which  I  really  feel  no  satisfaction  in  engaging — but  I  will  do  all  I  can  to 
promote  their  circulation,  and  shall  be  most  ready  to  attend  to  any  future 
plan  of  yours. 

With  much  regard,  I  remain,  dear  sir, 

Your  faithful  servant, 

John  Muheay. 


PREFACE.  7 

This  was  disheartening,  and  might  have  deterred  me 
from  any  further  prosecution  of  the  matter,  had  the 
question  of  republication  in  Great  Britain  rested  entirely 
with  me ;  but  I  apprehended  the  appearance  of  a  spu- 
rious edition.  I  now  thought  of  Mr.  Archibald  Constable 
as  publisher,  having  been  treated  by  him  with  much  hos- 
pitality during  a  visit  to  Edinburgh;  but  first  I  deter- 
mined to  submit  my  work  to  Sir  Walter  (then  Mr.)  Scott, 
being  encouraged  to  do  so  by  the  cordial  reception  I  had 
experienced  from  him  at  Abbotsford  a  few  years  pre- 
viously, and  by  the  favorable  opinion  he  had  expressed 
to  others  of  my  earlier  writings.  I  accordingly  sent  him 
the  printed  numbers  of  the  Sketch-Eook  in  a  parcel  by 
coach,  and  at  the  same  time  wrote  to  him,  hinting  that 
since  I  had  had  the  pleasure  of  partaking  of  his  hospital- 
ity, a  reverse  had  taken  place  in  my  affairs  which  made 
the  successful  exercise  of  my  pen  all-important  to  me ;  I 
begged  him,  therefore,  to  look  over  the  literary  articles  I 
had  forwarded  to  him,  and,  if  he  thought  they  would  bear 
European  republication,  to  ascertain  whether  Mr.  Con- 
stable would  be  inclined  to  be  the  publisher. 

The  parcel  containing  my  work  went  by  coach  to 
Scott's  address  in  Edinburgh;  the  letter  went  by  mail 
to  his  residence  in  the  country.  By  the  very  first  post  I 
received  a  reply,  before  he  had  seen  my  work. 

"I  was  down  at  Kelso,"  said  he,  "when  your  letter 
reached  Abbotsford.  I  am  now  on  my  way  to  town,  and 
will  converse  with  Constable,  and  do  all  in  my  power  to 


8  PREFACE. 

forward  your  views — I  assure  you  nothing  will  give  me 
more  pleasure." 

The  hint,  however,  about  a  reverse  of  fortune  had 
struck  the  quick  apprehension  of  Scott,  and,  with  that 
practical  and  efficient  good  will  which  belonged  to  his 
nature,  he  had  already  devised  a  way  of  aiding  me. 

A  weekly  periodical,  he  went  on  to  inform  me,  was 
about  to  be  set  up  in  Edinburgh,  supported  by  the  most 
respectable  talents,  and  amply  furnished  with  all  the 
necessary  information.  The  appointment  of  the  editor, 
for  which  ample  funds  were  provided,  would  be  five  hun- 
dred pounds  sterling  a  year,  with  the  reasonable  pros- 
pect of  further  advantages.  This  situation,  being  ap- 
parently at  his  disposal,  he  frankly  offered  to  me.  The 
work,  however,  he  intimated,  was  to  have  somewhat  of  a 
political  bearing,  and  he  expressed  an  apprehension  that 
the  tone  it  was  desired  to  adopt  might  not  suit  me.  "Yet 
I  risk  the  question,"  added  he,  "because  I  know  no  man 
so  well  qualified  for  this  important  task,  and  perhaps  be- 
cause it  will  necessarily  bring  you  to  Edinburgh.  If  my 
proposal  does  not  suit,  you  need  only  keep  the  matter 
secret,  and  there  is  no  harm  done.  *And  for  my  love  I 
pray  you  wrong  me  not.'  If,  on  the  contrary,  you  think  it 
could  be  made  to  suit  you,  let  me  know  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble, addressing  Castle-street,  Edinburgh." 

In  a  postscript,  written  from  Edinburgh,  he  adds,  "I 
am  just  come  here,  and  have  glanced  over  the  Sketch- 
BooL    It  is  positively  beautiful,  and  increases  my  desire 


PBEFAGE.  9 

to  crimp  you,  if  it  be  possible.  Some  difficulties  there 
always  are  in  managing  such  a  matter,  especially  at  the 
outset ;  but  we  will  obviate  them  as  much  as  we  possibly 
can." 

The  following  is  from  an  imperfect  draught  of  my  re- 
ply, which  underwent  some  modifications  in  the  copy 
sent : 

"  I  cannot  express  how  much  I  am  gratified  by  your 
letter.  I  had  begun  to  feel  as  if  I  had  taken  an  unwar- 
rantable liberty ;  but,  somehow  or  other,  there  is  a  genial 
sunshine  about  you  that  warms  every  creeping  thing  into 
heart  and  confidence.  Your  literary  proposal  both  sur- 
prises and  flatters  me,  as  it  evinces  a  much  higher  opin- 
ion of  my  talents  than  I  have  myself." 

I  then  went  on  to  explain  that  I  found  myself  pecu- 
liarly unfitted  for  the  situation  offered  to  me,  not  merely 
by  my  political  opinions,  but  by  the  very  constitution 
and  habits  of  my  mind.  "  My  whole  course  of  life,"  I 
observed,  "  has  been  desultory,  and  I  am  unfitted  for  any 
periodically  recurring  task,  or  any  stipulated  labor  of 
body  or  mind.  I  have  no  command  of  my  talents,  such 
as  they  are,  and  have  to  watch  the  varyings  of  my  mind 
as  I  would  those  of  a  weather-cock.  Practice  and  train- 
ing may  bring  me  more  into  rule ;  but  at  present  I  am  as 
useless  for  regular  service  as  one  of  my  own  country 
Indians  or  a  Don  Cossack. 

"I  must,  therefore,  keep  on  pretty  much  as  I  have 
begun ;  writing  when  I  can,  not  when  I  would.     I  shaU 


10  PREFACE. 

occasionally  shift  my  residence  and  write  whatever  is 
suggested  by  objects  before  me,  or  whatever  rises  in  my 
imagination;  and  hope  to  write  better  and  more  copi- 
ously by  and  by. 

"  I  am  playing  the  egotist,  but  I  know  no  better  way  of 
answering  your  proposal  than  by  showing  what  a  very 
good-for-nothing  kind  of  being  I  am.  Should  Mr.  Con- 
stable feel  inclined  to  make  a  bargain  for  the  wares  I 
have  on  hand,  he  will  encourage  me  to  further  enter- 
prise ;  and  it  will  be  something  like  trading  with  a  gipsy 
for  the  fruits  of  his  prowlings,  who  may  at  one  time  have 
nothing  but  a  wooden  bowl  to  offer,  and  at  another 
time  a  silver  tankard." 

In  reply,  Scott  expressed  regret,  but  not  surprise,  at 
my  declining  what  might  have  proved  a  troublesome 
duty.  He  then  recurred  to  the  original  subject  of  our 
correspondence ;  entered  into  a  detail  of  the  various 
terms  upon  which  arrangements  were  made  between  au- 
thors and  booksellers,  that  I  might  take  my  choice ;  ex- 
pressing the  most  encouraging  confidence  of  the  success 
of  my  work,  and  of  previous  works  which  I  had  produced 
in  America.  "  I  did  no  more,"  added  he,  "  than  open  the 
trenches  with  Constable  ;  but  I  am  sure  if  you  will  take 
the  trouble  to  write  to  him,  you  will  find  him  disposed  to 
treat  your  overtures  with  every  degree  of  attention.  Or, 
if  you  think  it  of  consequence  in  the  first  place  to  see  me, 
I  shall  be  in  London  in  the  course  of  a  month,  and  what- 
ever my  experience  can  command  is  most  heartily  at  youi 


PREFACE.  11 

command.  But  I  can  add  little  to  what  I  have  said 
above,  except  my  earnest  recommendation  to  Constable 
to  enter  into  the  negotiation."  * 

Before  the  receipt  of  this  most  obliging  letter,  how- 
ever, I  had  determined  to  look  to  no  leading  bookseller 
for  a  launch,  but  to  throw  my  work  before  the  public 
at  my  own  risk,  and  let  it  sink  or  swim  according  to  its 
merits.  I  wrote  to  that  effect  to  Scott,  and  soon  received 
a  reply : 

"  I  observe  with  pleasure  that  you  are  going  to  come 
forth  in  Britain.  It  is  certainly  not  the  very  best  way  to 
publish  on  one's  own  account;  for  the  booksellers  set 
their  face  against  the  circulation  of  such  works  as  do  not 
pay  an  amazing  toll  to  themselves.  But  they  have  lost 
the  art  of  altogether  damming  up  the  road  in  such  cases 
between  the  author  and  the  public,  which  they  were  once 
able  to  do  as  effectually  as  Diabolus  in  John  Bunyan's 

*  I  cannot  avoid  subjoining  in  a  note  a  succeeding  paragraph  of  Scott's 
letter,  which,  though  it  does  not  relate  to  the  main  subject  of  our  corre- 
spondence, was  too  characteristic  to  be  omitted.  Some  time  previously  I 
had  sent  Miss  Sophia  Scott  small  duodecimo  American  editions  of  Tier 
father's  poems  published  in  Edinburgh  in  quarto  volumes  ;  showing  the 
*'  nigromancy  "  of  the  American  press,  by  which  a  quart  of  wine  is  con- 
jured into  a  pint  bottle.  Scott  observes  :  *'In  my  hurry,  1  have  not 
thanked  you  in  Sophia's  name  for  the  kind  attention  which  furnished  her 
with  the  American  volumes.  I  am  not  quite  sure  I  can  add  my  own, 
since  you  have  made  her  acquainted  with  much  more  of  papa's  folly  than 
she  would  ever  otherwise  have  learned  ;  for  I  had  taken  special  care  they 
should  never  see  any  of  those  things  during  their  earlier  years.  I  think  I 
told  you  that  Walter  is  sweeping  the  firmament  with  a  feather  like  a  may- 
pole, and  indenting  the  pavement  with  a  sword  like  a  scythe — in  other 
words,  he  has  become  a  whiskered  hussar  in  the  18th  dragoons." 


12  PUEFAGE. 

Holy  War  closed  up  the  windows  of  my  Lord  Under- 
standing's mansion.  I  am  sure  of  one  thing,  that  you 
have  only  to  be  known  to  the  British  pablic  to  be  ad- 
mired by  them,  and  I  would  not  say  so  unless  I  really 
was  of  that  opinion. 

"  If  you  ever  see  a  witty  but  rather  local  publication 
called  Blackwood's  Edinburgh  Magazine,  you  will  find 
some  notice  of  your  works  in  the  last  number:  the 
author  is  a  friend  of  mine,  to  whom  I  have  introduced 
you  in  your  literary  capacity.  His  name  is  Lockhart,  a 
young  man  of  very  considerable  talent,  and  who  will  soon 
be  intimately  connected  with  my  family.  My  faithful 
friend  Knickerbocker  is  to  be  next  examined  and  illus- 
trated. Constable  was  extremely  vailing  to  enter  into 
consideration  of  a  treaty  for  your  works,  but  I  foresee 
will  be  still  more  so  when 

Your  name  is  up,  and  may  go 
From  Toledo  to  Madrid. 

And  that  will  soon  be  the  case.     I  trust  to  be  in 


London  about  the  middle  of  the  month,  and  promise  my- 
self great  pleasure  in  once  again  shaking  you  by  the 
hand." 

The  first  volume  of  the  Sketch-Book  was  put  to  press 
in  London  as  I  had  resolved,  at  my  own  risk,  by  a  book- 
seller unknown  to  fame,  and  without  any  of  the  usual 
arts  by  which  a  work  is  trumpeted  into  notice.  Still 
some  attention  had  been  called  to  it  by  the  extracts  which 


PREFACE.  13 

had  previously  appeared  in  the  Literary  Gazette,  and  by 
the  kind  word  spoken  by  the  editor  of  that  periodical, 
and  it  was  getting  into  fair  circulation,  when  my  worthy 
bookseller  failed  before  the  first  month  was  over,  and  the 
sale  was  interrupted. 

At  this  juncture  Scott  arrived  in  London.  I  called  to 
him  for  help,  as  I  was  sticking  in  the  mire,  and,  more 
propitious  than  Hercules,  he  put  his  own  shoulder  to  the 
wheel.  Through  his  favorable  representations,  Murray 
was  quickly  induced  to  undertake  the  future  publication 
of  the  work  which  he  had  previously  declined.  A  further 
edition  of  the  first  volume  was  struck  off  and  the  second 
volume  was  put  to  press,  and  from  that  time  Murray  be- 
came my  publisher,  conducting  himself  in  all  his  deal- 
ings with  that  fair,  open,  and  liberal  spirit  which  had  ob- 
tained for  him  the  well-merited  appellation  of  the  Prince 
of  Booksellers. 

Thus,  under  the  kind  and  cordial  auspices  of  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott,  I  began  my  literary  career  in  Europe ;  and  I 
feel  that  I  am  but  discharging,  in  a  trifling  degree,  my 
debt  of  gratitude  to  the  memory  of  that  golden-hearted 
man  in  acknowledging  my  obligations  to  him. — But  who 
of  his  literary  contemporaries  ever  applied  to  him  for  aid 
or  counsel  that  did  not  experience  the  most  prompt,  gen- 
erous, and  effectual  assistance  1 

W.L 


The  Sketoh-Book. 


THE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF. 

*'  I  am  of  this  mind  with  Homer,  that  as  the  snaile  that  crept  out  of  her 
shel  was  turned  eftsoons  into  a  toad,  and  thereby  was  forced  to  make  a  stoole 
to  sit  on  ;  so  the  traveller  that  stragleth  from  his  owne  country  is  in  a  short 
time  transformed  into  so  monstrous  a  shape,  that  he  is  faine  to  alter  hia 
mansion  with  his  manners,  and  to  live  where  he  can,  not  where  he  would." 

Lylt's  Euphues. 


WAS  always  fond  of  visiting  new  scenes,  and 
observing  strange  characters  and  manners. 
Even  when  a  mere  child  I  began  my  travels, 
and  made  many  tours  of  discovery  into  foreign  parts  and 
unknown  regions  of  my  native  city,  to  the  frequent  alarm 
of  my  parents,  and  the  emolument  of  the  town-crier.  As 
I  grew  into  boyhood,  I  extended  the  range  of  my  obser- 
vations. My  holiday  afternoons  were  spent  in  rambles 
about  the  surrounding  country.  I  made  myself  familiar 
with  all  its  places  famous  in  history  or  fable.  I  knew 
every  spot  where  a  murder  or  robbery  had  been  com- 
mitted, or  a  ghost  seen.  I  visited  the  neighboring  vil- 
lages, and  added  greatly  to  my  stock  of  knowledge,  by 

16 


16  THE  SKETCHBOOK. 

noting  their  habits  and  customs,  and  conversing  with 
their  sages  and  great  men.  I  even  journeyed  one  long 
summer's  day  to  the  summit  of  the  most  distant  hill, 
whence  I  stretched  my  eye  over  many  a  mile  of  terra 
incognita,  and  was  astonished  to  find  how  vast  a  globe  I 
inhabited. 

This  rambling  propensity  strengthened  with  my  years. 
Books  of  voyages  and  travels  became  my  passion,  and  in 
devouring  their  contents,  I  neglected  the  regular  exer- 
cises of  the  school.  How  wistfully  would  I  wander  about 
the  pier-heads  in  fine  weather,  and  watch  the  parting 
ships,  bound  to  distant  climes — with  what  longing  eyes 
would  I  gaze  after  their  lessening  sails,  and  waft  myself 
in  imagination  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  ! 

Further  reading  and  thinking,  though  they  brought 
this  vague  inclination  into  more  reasonable  bounds,  only 
served  to  make  it  more  decided.  I  visited  various  parts 
of  my  own  country ;  and  had  I  been  merely  a  lover  of 
fine  scenery,  I  should  have  felt  little  desire  to  seek  else- 
where its  gratification,  for  on  no  country  have  the  charms 
of  nature  been  more  prodigally  lavished.  Her  mighty 
lakes,  like  oceans  of  liquid  silver ;  her  mountains,  with 
their  bright  aerial  tints ;  her  valleys,  teeming  with  wild 
fertility;  her  tremendous  cataracts,  thundering  in  their 
solitudes ;  her  boundless  plains,  waving  with  spontaneous 
verdure ;  her  broad  deep  rivers,  rolling  in  solemn  silence 
to  the  ocean  ;  her  trackless  forests,  where  vegetation  puts 
forth  all  its  magnificence;  her  skies,  kindling  with  the 


TEE  ACCOUNT  OF  TEE  AUTEOB.  17 

magic  of  summer  clouds  and  glorious  sunshine ; — ^no, 
never  need  an  American  look  beyond  his  own  country 
for  the  sublime  and  beautiful  cl  natural  scenery. 

But  Europe  held  forth  the  charms  of  storied  and  poeti- 
cal association.  There  were  to  be  seen  the  masterpieces 
of  art,  the  refinements  of  highly-cultivated  society,  the 
quaint  peculiarities  of  ancient  and  local  custom.  My  na- 
tive country  was  full  of  youthful  promise  :  Europe  was 
rich  in  the  accumulated  treasures  of  age.  Her  very  ruins 
told  the  history  of  times  gone  by,  and  every  mouldering 
stone  was  a  chronicle.  I  longed  to  wander  over  the 
scenes  of  renowned  achievement — to  tread,  as  it  were, 
in  the  footsteps  of  antiquity — to  loiter  about  the  ruined 
castle — to  meditate  on  the  falling  tower — to  escape,  in 
short,  from  the  commonplace  realities  of  the  present,  and 
lose  myself  among  the  shadowy  grandeurs  of  the  past. 

I  had,  beside  all  this,  an  earnest  desire  to  see  the 
great  men  of  the  earth.  We  have,  it  is  true,  our  great 
men  in  America :  not  a  city  but  has  an  ample  share  of 
them.  I  have  mingled  among  them  in  my  time,  and  been 
almost  withered  by  the  shade  into  which  they  cast  me ; 
for  there  is  nothing  so  baleful  to  a  small  man  as  the 
shade  of  a  great  one,  particularly  the  great  man  of  a  city. 
But  I  was  anxious  to  see  the  great  men  of  Europe ;  for  I 
had  read  in  the  works  of  various  philosophers,  that  all 
animals  degenerated  in  America,  and  man  among  the 
number.  A  great  man  of  Europe,  thought  I,  must  there- 
fore be  as  superior  to  a  great  man  of  America,  as  a  peak 


18:  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

of  the  Alps  to  a  highland  of  the  Hudson ;  and  in  this  idea 
I  was  confirmed,  by  observing  the  comparative  impor- 
tance and  swelling  magnitude  of  many  English  travellers 
among  us,  who,  I  was  assured,  were  very  little  people  in 
their  own  country.  I  will  visit  this  land  of  v/onders, 
thought  I,  and  see  the  gigantic  race  from  which  I  am 
degenerated. 

It  has  been  either  my  good  or  evil  lot  to  have  my  rov- 
ing passion  gratified.  I  have  wandered  through  difierent 
countries,  and  witnessed  many  of  the  shifting  scenes  of 
life.  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  studied  them  with  the  eye 
of  a  philosopher ;  but  rather  with  the  sauntering  gaze 
with  which  humble  lovers  of  the  picturesque  stroll  from 
the  window  of  one  print-shop  to  another ;  caught  some- 
times by  the  delineations  of  beauty,  sometimes  by  the 
distortions  of  caricature,  and  sometimes  by  the  loveliness 
of  landscape.  As  it  is  the  fashion  for  modern  tourists  to 
travel  pencil  in  hand,  and  bring  home  their  port-folios 
filled  with  sketches,  I  am  disposed  to  get  up  a  few  for 
the  entertainment  of  my  friends.  When,  however,  I  look 
over  the  hints  and  memorandums  I  have  taken  down  for 
the  purpose,  my  heart  almost  fails  me  at  finding  how 
my  idle  humor  has  led  me  aside  from  the  great  objects 
studied  by  every  regular  traveller  who  would  make  a 
book.  I  fear  I  shall  give  equal  disappointment  with  an 
unlucky  landscape  painter,  who  had  travelled  on  the  con- 
tinent, but,  following  the  bent  of  his  vagrant  inclination, 
had  sketched  in  nooks,  and  corners,  and  by-plaees.     His 


THE  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  AUTHOR.  19 

sketch-book  was  accordingly  crowded  with  cottages,  and 
landscapes,  and  obscure  ruins ;  but  he  had  neglected  to 
paint  St.  Peter's,  or  the  Coliseum ;  the  cascade  of  Terni, 
or  the  bay  of  Naples ;  and  had  not  a  single  glacier  or 
volcano  in  his  whole  <Jollection. 


THE    VOYAGE. 

Ships,  ships,  I  will  descrie  you 

Amidst  the  main, 

I  will  come  and  try  you, 

What  you  are  protecting, 

And  projecting, 

What's  your  end  and  aim. 

One  goes  abroad  for  merchandise  and  trading, 

Another  stays  to  keep  his  country  from  invading, 

A  third  is  coming  home  with  rich  and  wealthy  lading. 

Halloo !  my  fancie,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Old  Poem. 

wa^lJO  an  American  visiting  Europe,  the  long  voyage 
^^piiij  he  has  to  make  is  an  excellent  preparative. 
$Si^jii  The  temporary  absence  of  worldly  scenes  and 
employments  produces  a  state  of  mind  peculiarly  fitted 
to  receive  new  and  vivid  impressions.  The  vast  space 
of  waters  that  separates  the  hemispheres  is  like  a  blank 
page  in  existence.  There  is  no  gradual  transition,  by 
which,  as  in  Europe,  the  features  and  population  of  one 
country  blend  almost  imperceptibly  with  those  of  an- 
other. From  the  moment  you  lose  sight  of  the  land  you 
have  left  all  is  vacancy  until  you  step  on  the  opposite 
shore,  and  are  launched  at  once  into  the  bustle  and  nov- 
elties of  another  world. 

-  30 


THE   VOYAGE.  21 

In  travelling  by  land  there  is  a  continuity  of  scene  and 
a  connected  succession  of  persons  and  incidents,  that 
carry  on  the  story  of  life,  and  lessen  the  effect  of  absence 
and  separation.  We  drag,  it  is  true,  "  a  lengthening 
chain,"  at  each  remove  of  our  pilgrimage ;  but  the  chain 
is  unbroken :  we  can  trace  it  back  link  by  link ;  and  we 
feel  that  the  last  still  grapples  us  to  home.  But  a  wide 
sea  voyage  severs  us  at  once.  It  makes  us  conscious  of 
being  cast  loose  from  the  secure  anchorage  of  settled  life, 
and  sent  adrift  upon  a  doubtful  world.  It  interposes  a 
gulf,  not  merely  imaginary,  but  real,  between  us  and  our 
homes — a  gulf  subject  to  tempest,  and  fear,  and  uncer- 
tainty, rendering  distance  palpable,  and  return  precarious. 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  case  with  myself.  As  I  saw  the 
last  blue  line  of  my  native  land  fade  away  like  a  cloud  in 
the  horizon,  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  closed  one  volume  of 
the  world  and  its  concerns,  and  had  time  for  meditation, 
before  I  opened  another.  That  land,  too,  now  vanishing 
from  my  view,  which  contained  all  most  dear  to  me  in 
life ;  what  vicissitudes  might  occur  in  it — what  changes 
might  take  place  in  me,  before  I  should  visit  it  again  I 
Who  can  tell,  when  he  sets  forth  to  wander,  whither  he 
may  be  driven  by  the  uncertain  currents  of  existence  ;  or 
when  he  may  return ;  or  whether  it  may  ever  be  his  lot 
to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  childhood  ? 

I  said  that  at  sea  all  is  vacancy ;  I  should  correct  the 
expression.  To  one  given  to  day-dreaming,  and  fond  of 
losing  himself  in  reveries,  a  sea  voyage  is  full  of  subjects 


22  THE  8KBTGH.B00K. 

for  meditation;  but  then  they  are  the  wonders  of  the 
deep,  and  of  the  air,  and  rather  tend  to  abstract  the  mind 
from  worldly  themes.  I  delighted  to  loll  over  the  quar- 
ter-railing, or  climb  to  the  main-top,  of  a  calm  day,  and 
muse  for  hours  together  on  the  tranquil  bosom  of  a  sum- 
mer's sea ;  to  gaze  upon  the  piles  of  golden  clouds  just 
peering  above  the  horizon,  fancy  them  some  fairy  realms, 
and  people  them  with  a  creation  of  my  own ; — to  watch 
the  gentle  undulating  billows,  rolling  their  silver  volumes, 
as  if  to  die  away  on  those  happy  shores. 

There  was  a  delicious  sensation  of  mingled  security 
and  awe  with  which  I  looked  down  from  my  giddy  height, 
on  the  monsters  of  the  deep  at  their  uncouth  gambols. 
Shoals  of  porpoises  tumbling  about  the  bow  of  the  ship ; 
the  grampus  slowly  heaving  his  huge  form  above  the 
surface ;  or  the  ravenous  shark,  darting,  like  a  spectre, 
through  the  blue  waters.  My  imagination  would  conjure 
up  all  that  I  had  heard  or  read  of  the  watery  world  be- 
neath me ;  of  the  finny  herds  that  roam  its  fathomless 
valleys ;  of  the  shapeless  monsters  that  lurk  among  the 
very  foundations  of  the  earth ;  and  of  those  wild  phan- 
tasms that  swell  the  tales  of  fishermen  and  sailors. 

Sometimes  a  distant  sail,  gliding  along  the  edge  of  the 
ocean,  would  be  another  theme  of  idle  speculation. 
How  interesting  this  fragment  of  a  world,  hastening  to 
rejoin  the  great  mass  of  existence !  What  a  glorious 
monument  of  human  invention ;  which  has  in  a  manner 
triumphed  over  wind  and  wave ;  has  brought  the  ends 


TBtl  YOYAOE,  23 

of  tlie  world  into  communion ;  has  established  an  inter- 
change of  blessings,  pouring  into  the  sterile  regions  of 
the  north  all  the  luxuries  of  the  south ;  has  diffused  the 
light  of  knowledge  and  the  charities  of  cultivated  life ; 
and  has  thus  bound  together  those  scattered  portions  of 
the  human  race,  between  which  nature  seemed  to  have 
thrown  an  insurmountable  barrier. 

"We  one  day  descried  some  shapeless  object  drifting  at 
a  distance.  At  sea,  every  thing  that  breaks  the  monotony 
of  the  surrounding  expanse  attracts  attention.  It  proved 
to  be  the  mast  of  a  ship  that  must  have  been  completely 
wrecked ;  for  there  were  the  remains  of  handkerchiefs, 
by  which  some  of  the  crew  had  fastened  themselves  to 
this  spar,  to  prevent  their  being  washed  off  by  the  waves. 
There  was  no  trace  by  which  the  name  of  the  ship  could 
be  ascertained.  The  wreck  had  evidently  drifted  about 
for  many  months ;  clusters  of  shell-fish  had  fastened 
about  it,  and  long  sea-weeds  flaunted  at  its  sides.  But 
where,  thought  I,  is  the  crew  ?  Their  struggle  has  long 
been  over — they  have  gone  down  amidst  the  roar  of  the 
tempest — their  bones  lie  whitening  among  the  caverns  of 
the  deep.  Silence,  oblivion,  like  the  waves,  have  closed 
over  them,  and  no  one  can  tell  the  story  of  their  end. 
What  sighs  have  been  wafted  after  that  ship !  what 
I  prayers  offered  up  at  the  deserted  fireside  of  home  I 
1  How  often  has  the  mistress,  the  wife,  the  mother,  pored 
over  the  daily  news,  to  catch  some  casual  intelligence  of 
I  this  rover  of  the  deep  !     How  has  expectation  darkened 


24  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

into  anxiety — anxiety  into  dread — and  dread  into  de- 
spair !  Alas !  not  one  memento  may  ever  return  for  love 
to  cherish.  All  that  may  ever  be  known,  is,  that  she 
sailed  from  her  port,  "  and  was  never  heard  of  more  1 " 

The  sight  of  this  wreck,  as  usual,  gave  rise  to  many 
dismal  anecdotes.  This  was  particularly  the  case  in  the 
evening,  when  the  weather,  which  had  hitherto  been  fair, 
began  to  look  wild  and  threatening,  and  gave  indications 
of  one  of  those  sudden  storms  which  will  sometimes 
break  in  upon  the  serenity  of  a  summer  voyage.  As  we 
sat  round  the  dull  light  of  a  lamp  in  the  cabin,  that  made 
the  gloom  more  ghastly,  every  one  had  his  tale  of  ship- 
wreck and  disaster.  I  was  particularly  struck  with  a 
short  one  related  by  the  captain. 

"  As  I  was  once  sailing,"  said  he,  "  in  a  fine  stout  ship 
across  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  one  of  those  heavy 
fogs  which  prevail  in  those  parts  rendered  it  impossible 
for  us  to  see  far  ahead  even  in  the  daytime ;  but  at  night 
the  weather  was  so  thick  that  we  could  not  distinguish 
any  object  at  twice  the  length  of  the  ship.  I  kept  lights 
at  the  mast-head,  and  a  constant  watch  forward  to  look 
out  for  fishing  smacks,  which  are  accustomed  to  lie  at 
anchor  on  the  banks.  The  wind  was  blowing  a  smacking 
breeze,  and  we  were  going  at  a  great  rate  through  the 
water.  Suddenly  the  watch  gave  the  alarm  of  *  a  sail 
ahead ! ' — it  was  scarcely  uttered  before  we  were  upon 
her.  She  was  a  small  schooner,  at  anchor,  with  her 
broadside  towards  us.    The  crew  were  all  asleep,  and  had 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  8T0BT,  25 

neglected  to  hoist  a  light.  We  struck  her  just  amid- 
ships. The  force,  the  size,  the  weight  of  our  vessel  bore 
her  down  below  the  waves ;  we  passed  over  her  and  were 
hurried  on  our  course.  As  the  crashing  wreck  was  sink- 
ing beneath  us,  I  had  a  glimpse  of  two  or  three  half- 
naked  wretches  rushing  from  her  cabin ;  they  just  started 
from  their  beds  to  be  swallowed  shrieking  by  the  waves. 
I  heard  their  drowning  cry  mingling  with  the  wind.  The 
blast  that  bore  it  to  our  ears  swept  us  out  of  all  farther 
hearing.  I  shall  never  forget  that  cry  I  It  was  some 
time  before  we  could  put  the  ship  about,  she  was  under 
such  headway.  We  returned,  as  nearly  as  we  could 
guess,  to  the  place  where  the  smack  had  anchored.  We 
cruised  about  for  several  hours  in  the  dense  fog.  We 
fired  signal  guns,  and  listened  if  we  might  hear  the 
halloo  of  any  survivors :  but  all  was  silent — we  never 
saw  or  heard  anything  of  them  more." 

I  confess  these  stories,  for  a  time,  put  an  end  to  all  my 
fine  fancies.  The  storm  increased  with  the  night.  The 
sea  was  lashed  into  tremendous  confusion.  There  was 
a  fearful,  sullen  sound  of  rushing  waves,  and  broken 
surges.  Deep  called  unto  deep.  At  times  the  black  col- 
ume  of  clouds  overhead  seemed  rent  asunder  by  flashes 
of  lightning  which  quivered  along  the  foaming  billows, 
and  made  the  succeeding  darkness  doubly  terrible.  The 
thunders  bellowed  over  the  wild  waste  of  waters,  and 
were  echoed  and  prolonged  by  the  mountain  waves.  As 
I  saw  the  ship  staggering  and  plunging  among  these  roar- 


26  ^^^  SKETCH-BOOK, 

ing  caverns,  it  seemed  miraculous  that  she  regained  her 
balance,  or  preserved  her  buoyancy.  Her  yards  would 
dip  into  the  water  :  her  bow  was  almost  buried  beneath 
the  waves.  Sometimes  an  impending  surge  appeared 
ready  to  overwhelm  her,  and  nothing  but  a  dexterous 
movement  of  the  helm  preserved  her  from  the  shock. 

When  I  retired  to  my  cabin,  the  awful  scene  still  fol- 
lowed me.  The  whistling  of  the  wind  through  the  rig- 
ging sounded  like  funereal  wailings.  The  creaking  of  the 
masts,  the  straining  and  groaning  of  bulk-heads,  as  the 
ship  labored  in  the  weltering  sea,  were  frightful.  As  I 
heard  the  waves  rushing  along  the  sides  of  the  ship,  and 
roaring  in  my  very  ear,  it  seemed  as  if  Death  were  raging 
round  this  floating  prison,  seeking  for  his  prey :  the  mere 
starting  of  a  nail,  the  yawning  of  a  seam,  might  give  him 
entrance. 

A  fine  day,  however,  with  a  tranquil  sea  and  favoring 
breeze,  soon  put  all  these  dismal  reflections  to  flight.  It 
is  impossible  to  resist  the  gladdening  influence  of  fine 
weather  and  fair  wind  at  sea.  When  the  ship  is  decked 
out  in  all  her  canvas,  every  sail  swelled,  and  careering 
gayly  over  the  curling  waves,  how  lofty,  how  gallant  she 
appears — how  she  seems  to  lord  it  over  the  deep ! 

I  might  fill  a  volume  with  the  reveries  of  a  sea  voy- 
age, for  with  me  it  is  almost  a  continual  reverie — ^but  it 
is  time  to  get  to  shore. 

It  was  a  fine  sunny  morning  when  the  thrilling  cry  of 
"land!"  was  given  from  the  mast-head.     None  but  those 


THE  ARRIVAL.  27 

who  have  experienced  it  can  form  an  idea  of  the  delicious 
throng  of  sensations  which  rush  into  an  American's 
bosom,  when  he  first  comes  in  sight  of  Europe.  There  is 
a  volume  of  associations  with  the  very  name.  It  is  the 
land  of  promise,  teeming  with  every  thing  of  which  his 
childhood  has  heard,  or  on  which  his  studious  years  have 
pondered. 

From  that  time  until  the  moment  of  arrival,  it  was  all 
feverish  excitement.  The  ships  of  war,  that  prowled  like 
guardian  giants  along  the  coast;  the  headlands  of  Ire- 
land, stretching  out  into  the  channel;  the  Welsh  moun- 
tains, towering  into  the  clouds ;  all  were  objects  of  intense 
interest.  As  we  sailed  up  the  Mersey,  I  reconnoitred  the 
shores  with  a  telescope.  My  eye  dwelt  with  delight  on 
neat  cottages,  with  their  trim  shrubberies  and  green 
grass  plots.  I  saw  the  mouldering  ruin  of  an  abbey 
overrun  with  ivy,  and  the  taper  spire  of  a  village  church 
rising  from  the  brow  of  a  neighboring  hill — all  were 
characteristic  of  England. 

The  tide  and  wind  were  so  favorable  that  the  ship  was 
enabled  to  come  at  once  to  the  pier.  It  was  thronged 
with  people ;  some,  idle  lookers-on,  others,  eager  expect- 
ants of  friends  or  relatives.  I  could  distinguish  the  mer- 
chant to  whom  the  ship  was  consigned.  I  knew  him  by 
his  calculating  brow  and  restless  air.  His  hands  were 
thrust  into  his  pockets ;  he  was  whistling  thoughtfully, 
and  walking  to  and  fro,  a  small  space  having  been  ac- 
corded him  by  the  crowd,  in  deference  to  his  temporarj^ 


28  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

importance.  There  were  repeated  cheerings  and  saluta- 
tions interchanged  between  the  shore  and  the  ship,  as 
friends  happened  to  recognize  each  other.  I  particularly 
noticed  one  young  woman  of  humble  dress,  but  interest- 
ing demeanor.  She  was  leaning  forward  from  among  the 
crowd;  her  eye  hurried  over  the  ship  as  it  neared  the 
shore,  to  catch  some  wished-for  countenance.  She  seem- 
ed disappointed  and  agitated ;  when  I  heard  a  faint  voice 
call  her  name.  It  was  from  a  poor  sailor  who  had  been 
ill  all  the  voyage,  and  had  excited  the  sympathy  of  every 
one  on  board.  When  the  weather  was  fine,  his  messmates 
had  spread  a  mattress  for  him  on  deck  in  the  shade,  but 
of  late  his  illness  had  so  increased,  that  he  had  taken  to 
his  hammock,  and  only  breathed  a  wish  that  he  might 
see  his  wife  before  he  died.  He  had  been  helped  on  deck 
as  we  came  up  the  river,  and  was  now  leaning  against  the 
shrouds,  with  a  countenance  so  wasted,  so  pale,  so  ghast- 
ly, that  it  was  no  wonder  even  the  eye  of  affection  did  not 
recognize  him.  But  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  her  eye 
darted  on  his  features ;  it  read,  at  once,  a  whole  volume 
of  soiTow ;  she  clasped  her  hands,  uttered  a  faint  shriek, 
and  stood  wringing  them  in  silent  agony. 

All  now  was  hurry  and  bustle.  The  meetings  of  ac- 
quaintances— the  greetings  of  friends — ^the  consultations 
of  men  of  business.  I  alone  was  solitary  and  idle.  I  had 
no  friend  to  meet,  no  cheering  to  receive.  I  stepped 
upon  the  land  of  my  fore5athers — ^but  felt  that  I  was  a 
stranger  in  the  land. 


EOSCOE. 


-In  tlie  service  of  mankind  to  be 


A  guardian  god  below  ;  still  to  employ 
The  mind's  brave  ardor  in  heroic  aims, 
Such  as  may  raise  us  o'er  the  grovelling  herd, 
And  make  us  shine  forever — that  is  life. 

Thomson. 

NE  of  the  first  places  to  wliicli  a  stranger  is 
taken  in  Liverpool  is  the  Athenaeum.  It  is  es- 
tablished on  a  liberal  and  judicious  plan;  it 
contains  a  good  library,  and  spacious  reading-room,  and 
is  the  great  literary  resort  of  the  place.  Go  there  at 
what  hour  you  may,  you  are  sure  to  find  it  filled  with 
grave-looking  personages,  deeply  absorbed  in  the  study 
of  newspapers. 

As  I  was  once  visiting  this  haunt  of  the  learned,  my 
attention  was  attracted  to  a  person  just  entering  the 
room.  He  was  advanced  in  life,  tall,  and  of  a  form  that 
might  once  have  been  commanding,  but  it  was  a  little 
bowed  by  time — perhaps  by  care.  He  had  a  noble  Eo- 
man  style  of  countenance;  a  head  that  would  have 
pleased  a  painter ;  and  though  some  slight  furrows  on 
his  brow  showed  that  wasting  thought  had  been  busy 

29 


80  THE  8KETGH-B00E. 

there,  yet  his  eye  still  beamed  with  the  fire  of  a  poetic 
soul.  There  was  something  in  his  whole  appearance  that 
indicated  a  being  of  a  different  order  from  the  bustling 
race  around  him. 

I  inquired  his  name,  and  was  informed  that  it  was 
Roscoe.  I  drew  back  with  an  involuntary  feeling  of  ven- 
eration. This,  then,  was  an  author  of  celebrity ;  this  was 
one  of  those  men,  whose  voices  have  gone  forth  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth ;  with  whose  minds  I  have  communed 
even  in  the  solitudes  of  America.  Accustomed,  as  we  are 
in  our  country,  to  know  European  writers  only  by  their 
works,  we  cannot  conceive  of  them,  as  of  other  men,  en- 
grossed by  trivial  or  sordid  pursuits,  and  jostling  with 
the  crowd  of  common  minds  in  the  dusty  paths  of  life. 
They  pass  before  our  imaginations  like  superior  beings, 
radiant  with  the  emanations  of  their  genius,  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  halo  of  literary  glory. 

To  find,  therefore,  the  elegant  historian  of  the  Medici, 
mingling  among  the  busy  sons  of  traffic,  at  first  shocked 
my  poetical  ideas ;  but  it  is  from  the  very  circumstances 
and  situation  in  which  he  has  been  placed,  that  Mr.  Ros- 
coe  derives  his  highest  claims  to  admiration.  It  is  inter- 
esting to  notice  how  some  minds  seem  almost  to  create 
themselves,  springing  up  under  every  disadvantage,  and 
working  their  solitary  but  irresistible  way  through  a 
thousand  obstacles.  Nature  seems  to  delight  in  disap- 
pointing the  assiduities  of  art,  with  which  it  would  rear 
legitimate  dulness  to  maturity ;  and  to  glory  in  the  vigor 


MB.  B08C0K  31 

and  luxuriance  of  her  chance  productions.  She  scatters 
the  seeds  of  genius  to  the  winds,  and  though  some  may 
perish  among  the  stony  places  of  the  world,  and  some 
be  choked  by  the  thorns  and  brambles  of  early  adver- 
sity, yet  others  will  now  and  then  strike  root  even  in  the 
clefts  of  the  rock,  struggle  bravely  up  into  sunshine,  and 
spread  over  their  sterile  birthplace  all  the  beauties  of 
vegetation. 

Such  has  been  the  case  with  Mr.  Roscoe.  Born  in  a 
place  apparently  ungenial  to  the  growth  of  literary  tal- 
ent ;  in  the  very  market-place  of  trade ;  without  fortune, 
family  connections,  or  patronage ;  self-prompted,  self-sus- 
tained, and  almost  self-taught,  he  has  conquered  every 
obstacle,  achieved  his  way  to  eminence,  and,  having  be- 
come one  of  the  ornaments  of  the  nation,  has  turned  the 
whole  force  of  his  talents  and  influence  to  advance  and 
embellish  his  native  town. 

Indeed,  it  is  this  last  trait  in  his  character  which  has 
given  him  the  greatest  interest  in  my  eyes,  and  induced 
me  particularly  to  point  him  out  to  my  countrymem 
Eminent  as  are  his  literary  merits,  he  is  but  one  among 
the  many  distinguished  authors  of  this  intellectual  na- 
tion. They,  however,  in  general,  live  but  for  their  own 
fame,  or  their  ov/n  pleasures.  Their  private  history  pre- 
sents no  lesson  to  the  world,  or,  perhaps,  a  humiliating 
one  of  human  frailty  and  inconsistency.  At  best,  they 
are  prone  to  steal  away  from  the  bustle  and  commonplace 
of  busy  existence ;  to  indulge  in  the.  selfishness  of  lettered 


32  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ease  ;  and  to  revel  in  scenes  of  mental,  but  exclusive  en- 
joyment. 

Mr.  Eoscoe,  on  the  contrary,  has  claimed  none  of  the 
accorded  privileges  of  talent.  He  has  shut  himself  up  in 
no  garden  of  thought,  nor  elysium  of  fancy ;  but  has  gone 
forth  into  the  highways  and  thoroughfares  of  life ;  he  has 
planted  bowers  by  the  way-side,  for  the  refreshment  of 
the  pilgrim  and  the  sojourner,  and  has  opened  pure  foun- 
tains, where  the  laboring  man  may  turn  aside  from  the 
dust  and  heat  of  the  day,  and  drink  of  the  living  streams 
of  knowledge.  There  is  a  "  daily  beauty  in  his  life,"  on 
which  mankind  may  meditate  and  grow  better.  It  ex- 
hibits no  lofty  and  almost  useless,  because  inimitable, 
example  of  excellence  ;  but  presents  a  picture  of  active, 
yet  simple  and  imitable  virtues,  which  are  within  every 
man's  reach,  but  which,  unfortunately,  are  not  exercised 
by  many,  or  this  world  would  be  a  paradise. 

But  his  private  life  is  peculiarly  worthy  the  attention 
of  the  citizens  of  our  young  and  busy  country,  where  lit- 
erature and  the  elegant  arts  must  grow  up  side  by  side 
with  the  coarser  plants  of  daily  necessity ;  and  must  de- 
pend for  their  culture,  not  on  the  exclusive  devotion  of 
time  and  wealth,  nor  the  quickening  rays  of  titled  pat- 
ronage, but  on  hours  and  seasons  snatched  from  the 
pursuit  of  worldly  interests,  by  intelligent  and  public- 
spirited  individuals. 

He  has  shown  how  much  may  be  done  for  a  place  in 
hours  of  leisure  by  one  master  spirit,  and  how  completely 


ROaCOE.  33 

it  can  give  its  own  impress  to  surrounding  objects.  Like 
his  own  Lorenzo  De'  Medici,  on  whom  he  seems  to  have 
fixed  his  eye  as  on  a  pure  model  of  antiquity,  he  has  in- 
terwoven the  history  of  his  life  with  the  history  of  his 
native  town,  and  has  made  the  foundations  of  its  fame 
the  monuments  of  his  virtues.  Wherever  you  go  in  Liv- 
erpool, you  perceive  traces  of  his  footsteps  in  all  that  is 
elegant  and  liberal.  He  found  the  tide  of  wealth  flowing 
merely  in  the  channels  of  traffick ;  he  has  diverted  from 
it  invigorating  rills  to  refresh  the  garden  of  literature. 
By  his  own  example  and  constant  exertions  he  has  ef- 
fected that  union  of  commerce  and  the  intellectual  pur- 
suits, so  eloquently  recommended  in  one  of  his  latest 
writings  :  *  and  has  practically  proved  how  beautifully 
they  may  be  brought  to  harmonize,  and  to  benefit  each 
other.  The  noble  institutions  for  literary  and  scientific 
purposes,  which  reflect  such  credit  on  Liverpool,  and  are 
giving  such  an  impulse  to  the  public  mind,  have  mostly 
been  originated,  and  have  all  been  effectively  promoted, 
by  Mr.  Eoscoe  ;  and  when  we  consider  the  rapidly  in- 
creasing opulence  and  magnitude  of  that  town,  which 
promises  to  vie  in  commercial  importance  with  the  me- 
tropolis, it  will  be  perceived  that  in  awakening  an  ambi- 
tion of  mental  improvement  among  its  inhabitants,  he  has 
e£B3cted  a  great  benefit  to  the  cause  of  British  literature. 
Li  America,  we  know  Mr.  Eoscoe  only  as  the  author — 


♦  Address  on  tlie  opening  of  the  Liverpool  Institution. 
8 


34  THE  SKETGH-BOOK. 

in  Liverpool  he  is  spoken  of  as  the  banker ;  and  I  was 
told  of  his  having  been  unfortunate  in  business.  I  could 
not  pity  him,  as  I  heard  some  rich  men  do.  I  considered 
him  far  above  the  reach  of  pity.  Those  who  live  only  for 
the  world,  and  in  the  world,  may  be  cast  down  by  the 
frowns  of  adversity ;  but  a  man  like  Roscoe  is  not  to  be 
overcome  by  the  reverses  of  fortune.  They  do  but  drive 
him  in  upon  the  resources  of  his  own  mind ;  to  the  supe- 
rior society  of  his  own  thoughts ;  which  the  best  of  men 
are  apt  sometimes  to  neglect,  and  to  roam  abroad  in 
search  of  less  worthy  associates.  He  is  independent  of 
the  world  around  him.  He  lives  with  antiquity  and  pos- 
terity ;  with  antiquity,  in  the  sweet  communion  of  studi- 
ous retirement ;  and  with  posterity,  in  the  generous  aspir- 
ings after  future  renown.  The  solitude  of  such  a  mind  is 
its  state  of  highest  enjoyment.  It  is  then  visited  by  those 
elevated  meditations  which  are  the  proper  aliment  of 
noble  souls,  and  are,  like  manna,  sent  from  heaven,  in  the 
wilderness  of  this  world. 

While  my  feelings  were  yet  alive  on  the  subject,  it  was 
my  fortune  to  light  on  further  traces  of  Mr.  Roscoe.  I 
was  riding  out  with  a  gentleman,  to  view  the  environs  of 
Liverpool,  when  he  turned  off,  through  a  gate,  into  some 
ornamented  grounds.  After  riding  a  short  distance,  we 
came  to  a  spacious  mansion  of  freestone,  built  in  the  Gre- 
cian style.  It  was  not  in  the  purest  taste,  yet  it  had  an 
air  of  elegance,  and  the  situation  was  delightful.  A  fine 
lawn  sloped  away  from  it,  studded  with  clumps  of  trees, 


B08C0E.  36 

SO  disposed  as  to  break  a  soft  fertile  country  into  a  va- 
riety of  landscapes.  The  Mersey  was  seen  winding  a 
broad  quiet  sheet  of  water  through  an  expanse  of  green 
meadow-land  ;  while  the  Welsh  mountains,  blended  with 
clouds,  and  melting  into  distance,  bordered  the  horizon. 

This  was  Eoscoe's  favorite  residence  during  the  days 
of  his  prosperity.  It  had  been  the  seat  of  elegant  hospi- 
tality and  literary  retirement.  The  house  was  now  silent 
and  deserted.  I  saw  the  windows  of  the  study,  which 
looked  out  upon  the  soft  scenery  I  have  mentioned.  The 
windows  were  closed — the  library  was  gone.  Two  or 
three  ill-favored  beings  were  loitering  about  the  place, 
whom  my  fancy  pictured  into  retainers  of  the  law.  It 
was  like  visiting  some  classic  fountain,  that  had  once 
welled  its  pure  waters  in  a  sacred  shade,  but  finding  it 
dry  and  dusty,  with  the  lizard  and  the  toad  brooding  over 
the  shattered  marbles. 

I  inquired  after  the  fate  of  Mr.  Eoscoe's  library,  which 
had  consisted  of  scarce  and  foreign  books,  from  many  of 
which  he  had  drawn  the  materials  for  his  Italian  histo- 
ries. It  had  passed  under  the  hammer  of  the  auctioneer, 
and  was  dispersed  about  the  country.  The  good  people 
of  the  vicinity  thronged  like  wreckers  to  get  some  part 
of  the  noble  vessel  that  had  been  driven  on  shore.  Did 
such  a  scene  admit  of  ludicrous  associations,  we  might 
imagine  something  whimsical  in  this  strange  irruption  in 
the  regions  of  learning.  Pigmies  rummaging  the  armory 
of  a  giant,  and  contending  for  the  possession  of  weapons 


36  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

which  they  could  not  wield.  We  might  picture  to  our- 
selves some  knot  of  speculators,  debating  with  calculat- 
ing brow  over  the  quaint  binding  and  illuminated  margin 
of  an  obsolete  author ;  of  the  air  of  intense,  but  baffled 
sagacity,  with  which  some  successful  purchaser  attempted 
to  dive  into  the  black-letter  bargain  he  had  secured. 

It  is  a  beautiful  incident  in  the  story  of  Mr.  Koscoe's 
misfortunes,  and  one  which  cannot  fail  to  interest  the 
studious  mind,  that  the  parting  with  his  books  seems  to 
have  touched  upon  his  tenderest  feelings,  and  to  have 
been  the  only  circumstance  that  could  provoke  the  notice 
of  his  muse.  The  scholar  only  knows  how  dear  these 
silent,  yet  eloquent,  companions  of  pure  thoughts  and  in- 
nocent hours  become  in  the  seasons  of  adversity.  When 
all  that  is  worldly  turns  to  dross  around  us,  these  only  re- 
tain their  steady  value.  When  friends  grow  cold,  and  the 
converse  of  intimates  languishes  into  vapid  civility  and 
commonplace,  these  only  continue  the  unaltered  counte- 
nance of  happier  days,  and  cheer  us  with  that  true  friend- 
ship which  never  deceived  hope,  nor  deserted  sorrow. 

I  do  not  wish  to  censure ;  but,  surely,  if  the  people  of 
Liverpool  had  been  properly  sensible  of  what  was  due  to 
Mr.  Eoscoe  and  themselves,  his  library  would  never  have 
been  sold.  Good  worldly  reasons  may,  doubtless,  be 
given  for  the  circumstance,  which  it  would  be  difficult  to 
combat  with  others  that  might  seem  merely  fanciful ;  but 
it  certainly  appears  to  me  such  an  opportunity  as  seldom 
occurs,  of  cheering  a  noble  mind  struggling  under  mis- 


R08C0E.  37 

fortunes,  by  one  of  the  most  delicate,  but  most  expres- 
sive tokens  of  public  sympathy.  It  is  difficult,  however, 
to  estimate  a  man  of  genius  properly  who  is  daily  before 
our  eyes.  He  becomes  mingled  and  confounded  with 
other  men.  His  great  qualities  lose  their  novelty,  we 
become  too  familiar  with  the  common  materials  which 
form  the  basis  even  of  the  loftiest  character..  Some  of 
Mr.  Eoscoe's  townsmen  may  regard  him  merely  as  a  man 
of  business ;  others  as  a  politician ;  all  find  him  engaged 
like  themselves  in  ordinary  occupations,  and  surpassed, 
perhaps,  by  themselves  on  some  points  of  worldly  wis- 
dom. Even  that  amiable  and  unostentatious  simplicity 
of  character,  which  gives  the  nameless  grace  to  real  ex- 
cellence, may  cause  him  to  be  undervalued  by  some 
coarse  minds,  who  do  not  know  that  true  worth  is  always 
void  of  glare  and  pretension.  But  the  man  of  letters, 
who  speaks  of  Liverpool,  speaks  of  it  as  the  residence  of 
Koscoe. — The  intelligent  traveller  who  visits  it  inquires 
where  Eoscoe  is  to  be  seen. — He  is  the  literary  landmark 
of  the  place,  indicating  its  existence  to  the  distant 
scholar. — He  is,  like  Pompey's  column  at  Alexandria, 
towering  alone  in  classic  dignity. 

The  following  sonnet,  addressed  by  Mr.  Eoscoe  to  his 
books  on  parting  with  them,  is  alluded  to  in  the  preced- 
ing article.  If  anything  can  add  effect  to  the  pure  feeling 
and  elevated  thought  here  displayed,  it  is  the  conviction, 
that  the  whole  is  no  effusion  of  fancy,  but  a  faithful  tran- 
script from  the  writer's  heart. 


38  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


TO  MY  BOOKS. 

As  one  who,  destined  from  his  friends  to  part, 
Kegrets  his  loss,  but  hopes  again  erewhile 
To  share  their  converse  and  enjoy  their  smile, 

And  tempers  as  he  may  aflOliction's  dart; 

Thus,  loved  associates,  chiefs  of  elder  art. 

Teachers  of  wisdom,  who  could  once  beguile 
My  tedious  hours,  and  lighten  every  toil, 

i  now  resign  you;  nor  with  fainting  heart; 

For  pass  a  few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hours, 
And  happier  seasons  may  their  dawn  unfold, 
And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore : 
When,  freed  from  earth,  unlimited  its  powers, 
Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  communion  hold, 
And  kindred  spirits  meet  to  part  no  more. 


THE  WIFE. 

The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precious 
As  are  the  conceal 'd  comforts  of  a  man 
Locked  up  in  woman's  love.    I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessings,  when  I  come  but  near  the  house. 
What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth    .    .    . 
The  violet  bed's  not  sweeter. 

MlDDLETON. 

HAVE  often  had  occasion  to  remark  tlie  forti- 
tude with  which  women  sustain  the  most  over- 
whelming reverses  of  fortune.  Those  disasters 
which  break  down  the  spirit  of  a  man,  and  prostrate  him 
in  the  dust,  seem  to  call  forth  all  the  energies  of  the 
softer  sex,  and  give  such  intrepidity  and  elevation  to 
their  character,  that  at  times  it  approaches  to  sublimity. 
Nothing  can  be  more  touching  than  to  behold  a  soft  and 
tender  female,  who  had  been  all  weakness  and  depen- 
dence, and  alive  to  every  trivial  roughness,  while  tread- 
ing the  prosperous  paths  of  life,  suddenly  rising  in 
mental  force  to  be  the  comforter  and  support  of  her  hus- 
band under  misfortune,  and  abiding,  with  unshrinking 
firmness,  the  bitterest  blasts  of  adversity. 

As  the  vine,  which  has  long  twined  its  graceful  foliage 
about  the  oak,  and  been  lifted  by  it  into  sunshine,  will, 


40  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

when  the  hardy  plant  is  rifted  by  the  thunderbolt,  cling 
round  it  with  its  caressing  tendrils,  and  bind  up  its  shat- 
tered boughs ;  so  is  it  beautifully  ordered  by  Providence, 
that  woman,  who  is  the  mere  dependent  and  ornament  of 
man  in  his  happier  hours,  should  be  his  stay  and  solace 
when  smitten  with  sudden  calamity;  winding  herself 
into  the  rugged  recesses  of  his  nature,  tenderly  support- 
ing the  drooping  head,  and  binding  up  the  broken  heart. 

I  was  once  congratulating  a  friend,  who  had  around 
him  a  blooming  family,  knit  together  in  the  strongest  af- 
fection. "I  can  wish  you  no  better  lot,"  said  he,  with 
enthusiasm,  "than  to  have  a  wife  and  children.  If  you 
are  prosperous,  there  they  are  to  share  your  prosperity; 
if  otherwise,  there  they  are  to  comfort  you."  And,  in- 
deed, I  have  observed  that  a  married  man  falling  into 
misfortune  is  more  apt  to  retrieve  his  situation  in  the 
world  than  a  single  one ;  partly  because  he  is  more  stim- 
idated  to  exertion  by  the  necessities  of  the  helpless  and 
beloved  beings  who  depend  upon  him  for  subsistence; 
but  chiefly  because  his  spirits  are  soothed  and  relieved 
by  domestic  endearments,  and  his  self-respect  kept  alive 
by  finding,  that  though  all  abroad  is  darkness  and  humil- 
iation, yet  there  is  still  a  little  world  of  love  at  home,  of 
which  he  is  the  monarch.  "Whereas  a  single  man  is  apt 
to  run  to  waste  and  self-neglect ;  to  fancy  himself  lonely 
and  abandoned,  and  his  heart  to  fall  to  ruin  like  some 
deserted  mansion,  for  want  of  an  inhabitant. 

These  observations  call  to  mind  a  little  domestic  story, 


TEE  LESLIES.  41 

of  which  I  was  once  a  witness.  My  intimate  friend,  Les- 
lie, had  married  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  girl,  who 
had  been  brought  up  in  the  midst  of  fashionable  life. 
She  had,  it  is  true,  no  fortune,  but  that  of  mj  friend  was 
ample ;  and  he  delighted  in  the  anticipation  of  indulging 
her  in  every  elegant  pursuit,  and  administering  to  those 
delicate  tastes  and  fancies  that  spread  a  kind  of  witchery 
about  the  sex. — "Her  life,"  said  he,  "shall  be  like  a  fairy 
tale." 

The  very  difference  in  their  characters  produced  an 
harmonious  combination :  he  was  of  a  romantic  and  some- 
what serious  cast ;  she  was  all  life  and  gladness.  I  have 
often  noticed  the  mute  rapture  with  which  he  would  gaze 
upon  her  in  company,  of  which  her  sprightly  powers 
made  her  the  delight ;  and  how,  in  the  midst  of  applause, 
her  eye  would  still  turn  to  him,  as  if  there  alone  she 
sought  favor  and  acceptance.  When  leaning  on  his  arm, 
her  slender  form  contrasted  finely  with  his  tall  manly 
person.  The  fond  confiding  air  with  which  she  looked  up 
to  him  seemed  to  call  forth  a  flush  of  triumphant  pride 
and  cherishing  tenderness,  as  if  he  dot^d  on  his  lovely 
burden  for  its  very  helplessness.  Never  did  a  couple  set 
forward  on  the  flowery  path  of  early  and  well-suited  mar- 
riage with  a  fairer  prospect  of  felicity. 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  my  friend,  however,  to  have 
embarked  his  property  in  large  speculations ;  and  he  had 
not  been  married  many  months,  when,  by  a  succession  of 
sudden  disasters,  it  was  swept  from  him,  and  he  found 


42  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

himself  reduced  almost  to  penury.  For  a  time  lie  kept 
his  situation  to  himself,  and  went  about  with  a  haggard 
countenance,  and  a  breaking  heart.  His  life  was  but  a  pro- 
tracted agony ;  and  what  rendered  it  more  insupportable 
was  the  necessity  of  keeping  up  a  smile  in  the  presence 
of  his  wife ;  for  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  overwhelm 
her  with  the  news.  She  saw,  however,  with  the  quick 
eyes  of  affection,  that  all  was  not  well  with  him.  She 
marked  his  altered  looks  and  stifled  sighs,  and  was  not  to 
be  deceived  by  his  sickly  and  vapid  attempts  at  cheerful- 
ness. She  tasked  all  her  sprightly  powers  and  tender 
blandishments  to  win  him  back  to  happiness;  but  she 
only  drove  the  arrow  deeper  into  his  soul.  The  more  he 
saw  cause  to  love  her,  the  more  torturing  was  the  thought 
that  he  was  soon  to  make  her  wretched.  A  little  while, 
thought  he,  and  the  smile  will  vanish  from  that  cheek — 
the  song  will  die  away  from  those  lips — the  lustre  of 
those  eyes  will  be  quenched  with  sorrow ;  and  the  happy 
heart,  which  now  beats  lightly  in  that  bosom,  will  be 
weighed  down  like  mine,  by  the  cares  and  miseries  of  the 
world. 

At  length  he  came  to  me  one  day,  and  related  his 
whole  situation  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  despair.  When 
I  heard  him  through  I  inquired,  "  Does  your  wife  know 
all  this?"  —  At  the  question  he  burst  into  an  agony  of 
tears.  "  For  God's  sake !  "  cried  he,  "  if  you  have  any 
pity  on  me,  don't  mention  my  wife ;  it  is  the  thought  of 
her  that  drives  me  almost  to  madness !  '* 


THE  LESLIES.  43 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  said  I.  "  Slie  must  know  it  sooner 
or  later ;  you  cannot  keep  it  long  from  her,  and  the  intel- 
ligence may  break  upon  her  in  a  more  startling  manner, 
than  if  imparted  by  yourself;  for  the  accents  of  those 
we  love  soften  the  hardest  tidings.  Besides,  you  are  de- 
priving yourself  of  the  comforts  of  her  sympathy;  and 
not  merely  that,  but  also  endangering  the  only  bond  that 
can  keep  hearts  together — an  unreserved  community  of 
thought  and  feeling.  She  will  soon  perceive  that  some- 
thing is  secretly  preying  upon  your  mind  ;  and  true  love 
will  not  brook  reserve  ;  it  feels  undervalued  and  out- 
raged, when  even  the  sorrows  of  those  it  loves  are  con- 
cealed from  it." 

"  Oh,  but,  my  friend !  to  think  what  a  blow  I  am  to  give 
to  all  her  future  prospects — how  I  am  to  strike  her  very 
soul  to  the  earth,  by  telling  her  that  her  husband  is  a 
beggar !  that  she  is  to  forego  all  the  elegancies  of  life — 
all  the  pleasures  of  society — to  shrink  with  me  into  indi- 
gence and  obscurity !  To  tell  her  that  I  have  dragged 
her  down  from  the  sphere  in  which  she  might  have  con- 
tinued to  move  in  constant  brightness — ^the  light  of  every 
eye — the  admiration  of  every  heart ! — How  can  she  bear 
poverty  ?  she  has  been  brought  up  in  all  the  refinements 
of  opulence.  How  can  she  bear  neglect?  she  has  been 
the  idol  of  society.  Oh !  it  will  break  her  heart — it  will 
break  her  heart ! — " 

I  saw  his  grief  was  eloquent,  and  I  let  it  have  its  flow ; 
for  sorrow  relieves  itself  by  words.     When  his  paroxysm 


44  THE  SEETGE'BOOK. 

had  subsided,  and  lie  had  relapsed  into  moody  silence,  I 
resumed  the  subject  gently,  and  urged  him  to  break  his 
situation  at  once  to  his  wife.  He  shook  his  head  mourn- 
fully, but  positively. 

"  But  how  are  you  to  keep  it  from  her  ?  It  is  neces- 
sary she  should  know  it,  that  you  may  take  the  steps 
proper  to  the   alteration  of  your  circumstances.    You 

must  change,  your  style  of  living nay,"  observing  a 

pang  to  pass  across  his  countenance,  "  don't  let  that  af- 
flict you.  I  am  sure  you  have  never  placed  your  hap- 
piness in  outward  show — you  have  yet  friends,  warm 
friends,  who  will  not  think  the  worse  of  you  for  being 
less  splendidly  lodged :  and  surely  it  does  not  require 
a  palace  to  be  happy  with  Mary " 

"  I  could  be  happy  with  her,"  cried  he,  convulsively, 
"  in  a  hovel ! — I  could  go  down  with  her  into  poverty  and 
the  dust ! — I  could — I  could — God  bless  her ! — God  bless 
her ! "  cried  he,  bursting  into  a  transport  of  grief  and 
tenderness. 

"  And  believe  me,  my  friend,"  said  I,  stepping  up,  and 
grasping  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  "  believe  me  she  can 
be  the  same  with  you.  Ay,  more  :  it  will  be  a  source  of 
pride  and  triumph  to  her — it  will  call  forth  all  the  latent 
energies  and  fervent  sympathies  of  her  nature;  for  she 
will  rejoice  to  prove  that  she  loves  you  for  yourself. 
There  is  in  every  true  woman's  heart  a  spark  of  heavenly 
fire,  which  lies  dormant  in  the  broad  daylight  of  prosper- 
ity ;  but  which  kindles  up,  and  beams  and  blazes  in  the 


THE  LESLIES.  45 

dark  hour  of  adversity.  No  man  knows  what  tlie  wife  of 
his  bosom  is — no  man  knows  what  a  ministering  angel 
she  is — until  he  has  gone  with  her  through  the  fiery- 
trials  of  this  world." 

There  was  something  in  the  earnestness  of  my  manner, 
and  the  figurative  style  of  my  language,  that  caught  the 
excited  imagination  of  Leslie.  I  knew  the  auditor  I  had 
to  deal  with;  and  following  up  the  impression  I  had 
made,  I  finished  by  persuading  him  to  go  home  and  un- 
burden his  sad  heart  to  his  wife. 

I  must  confess,  notwithstanding  all  I  had  said,  I  felt 
some  little  solicitude  for  the  result.  Who  can  calculate 
on  the  fortitude  of  one  whose  life  has  been  a  round  of 
pleasures?  Her  gay  spirits  might  revolt  at  the  dark 
downward  path  of  low  humility  suddenly  pointed  out 
before  her,  and  might  cling  to  the  sunny  regions  in  which 
they  had  hitherto  revelled.  Besides,  ruin  in  fashionable 
life  is  accompanied  by  so  many  galling  mortifications,  to 
which  in  other  ranks  it  is  a  stranger. — In  short,  I  could 
not  meet  Leslie  the  next  morning  without  trepidation. 
He  had  made  the  disclosure. 

"  And  how  did  she  bear  it  ?  " 

"  Like  an  angel !  It  seemed  rather  to  be  a  relief  to  her 
mind,  for  she  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  asked 
if  this  was  all  that  had  lately  made  me  unhappy. — But, 
poor  girl,"  added  he,  "  she  cannot  realize  the  change  we 
must  undergo.  She  has  no  idea  of  poverty  but  in  the 
abstract ;  she  has  only  read  of  it  in  poetry,  where  it  is 


46  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

allied  to  love.  She  feels  as  yet  no  privation;  she  suf- 
fers no  loss  of  accustomed  conveniences  nor  elegancies. 
When  we  come  practically  to  experience  its  sordid  cares, 
its  paltry  wants,  its  petty  humiliations — ^then  will  be  the 
real  trial." 

"But,"  said  I,  "now  that  you  have  got  over  the 
severest  task,  that  of  breaking  it  to  her,  the  sooner  you 
let  the  world  into  the  secret  the  better.  The  disclosure 
may  be  mortifying ;  but  then  it  is  a  single  misery,  and 
soon  over :  whereas  you  otherwise  suffer  it,  in  anticipa- 
tion, every  hour  in  the  day.  It  is  not  poverty  so  much 
as  pretence,  that  harasses  a  ruined  man — the  struggle 
between  a  proud  mind  and  an  empty  purse — the  keeping 
up  a  hollow  show  that  must  soon  come  to  an  end.  Have 
the  courage  to  appear  poor  and  you  disarm  poverty  of  its 
sharpest  sting."  On  this  point  I  found  Leslie  perfectly 
prepared.  He  had  no  false  pride  himself,  and  as  to  his 
wife,  she  was  only  anxious  to  conform  to  their  altered 
fortunes. 

Some  days  afterwards  he  called  upon  me  in  the  even- 
ing. He  had  disposed  of  his  dwelling  house,  and  taken 
a  small  cottage  in  the  country,  a  few  miles  from  town. 
He  had  been  busied  all  day  in  sending  out  furniture. 
The  new  establishment  required  few  articles,  and  those 
of  the  simplest  kind.  All  the  splendid  furniture  of  his 
late  residence  had  been  sold,  excepting  his  wife's  harp. 
That,  he  said,  was  too  closely  associated  with  the  idea  of 
herself ;  it  belonged  to  the  little  story  of  their  loves ;  for 


THE  LESLIES.  47 

some  of  the  sweetest  moments  of  their  courtship  were 
those  when  he  had  leaned  over  that  instrument,  and  list- 
ened to  the  melting  tones  of  her  voice.  I  could  not  but 
smile  at  this  instance  of  romantic  gallantry  in  a  doting 
husband. 

He  was  now  going  out  to  the  cottage,  where  his  wife 
had  been  all  day  superintending  its  arrangement.  My 
feelings  had  become  strongly  interested  in  the  progress 
of  this  family  story,  and,  as  it  was  a  fine  evening,  I  of- 
fered to  accompany  him. 

He  was  wearied  with  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  and,  as  he 
walked  out,  fell  into  a  fit  of  gloomy  musing. 

"  Poor  Mary !  "  at  length  broke,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  from 
his  lips. 

"  And  what  of  her  ?  "  asked  I :  "  has  any  thing  hap- 
pened to  her  ?  " 

"What,"  said  he,  darting  an  impatient  glance,  "is  it 
nothing  to  be  reduced  to  this  paltry  situation — to  be 
caged  in  a  miserable  cottage — to  be  obliged  to  toil 
almost  in  the  menial  concerns  of  her  wretched  habita- 
tion?" 

"Has  she  then  repined  at  the  change?  " 

"Eepined!  she  has  been  nothing  but  sweetness  and 
good  humor.  Indeed,  she  seems  in  better  spirits  than  I 
have  ever  known  her ;  she  has  been  to  me  all  love,  and 
tenderness,  and  comfort!  " 

"Admirable  girl!"  exclaimed  I.  "You  call  yourself 
poor,  my  friend ;   you   never  were   so   rich — you  never 


48  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

knew  the  boundless  treasures  of  excellence  you  possess 
in  that  woman." 

"  Oh !  but,  my  friend,  if  this  first  meeting  at  the  cottage 
were  over,  I  think  I  could  then  be  comfortable.  But  this 
is  her  first  day  of  real  experience ;  she  has  been  intro- 
duced into  a  humble  dwelling — she  has  been  employed 
all  day  in  arranging  its  miserable  equipments — she  has, 
for  the  first  time,  known  the  fatigues  of  domestic  employ- 
ment— she  has,  for  the  first  time,  looked  round  her  on  a 
home  destitute  of  every  thing  elegant, — almost  of  every 
thing  convenient ;  and  may  now  be  sitting  down,  ex- 
hausted and  spiritless,  brooding  over  a  prospect  of  future 
poverty." 

There  was  a  degree  of  probability  in  this  picture  that 
I  could  not  gainsay,  so  we  walked  on  in  silence. 

After  turning  from  the  main  road  up  a  narrow  lane,  so 
thickly  shaded  with  forest  trees  as  to  give  it  a  complete 
air  of  seclusion,  we  came  in  sight  of  the  cottage.  It  was 
humble  enough  in  its  appearance  for  the  most  pastoral 
poet ;  and  yet  it  had  a  pleasing  rural  look.  A  wild  vine 
had  overrun  one  end  with  a  profusion  of  foliage ;  a  few 
trees  threw  their  branches  gracefully  over  it ;  and  I  ob- 
served several  pots  of  flowers  tastefully  disposed  about 
the  door,  and  on  the  grass-plot  in  front.  A  small  wicket 
gate  opened  upon  a  footpath  that  wound  through  some 
shrubbery  to  the  door.  Just  as  we  approached,  we  heard 
the  sound  of  music — Leslie  grasped  my  arm ;  we  paused 
and  listened.     It  was  Mary's  voice  singing,  in  a  style  of 


THE  LESLIES.  49 

the  most  touching  simplicity,  a  little  air  of  which  her 
husband  was  peculiarly  fond. 

I  felt  Leslie's  hand  tremble  on  my  arm.  He  stepped 
forward  to  hear  more  distinctly.  His  step  made  a  noise 
on  the  gravel  walk.  A  bright  beautiful  face  glanced  out 
at  the  window  and  vanished — a  light  footstep  was  heard 
— and  Mary  came  tripping  forth  to  meet  us :  she  was  in 
a  pretty  rural  dress  of  white ;  a  few  wild  flowers  were 
twisted  in  her  fine  hair ;  a  fresh  bloom  was  on  her  cheek  ; 
her  whole  countenance  beamed  with  smiles — I  had  never 
seen  her  look  so  lovely. 

"My  dear  George,"  cried  she,  "I  am  so  glad  you  are 
come !  I  have  been  watching  and  watching  for  you ;  and 
running  down  the  lane,  and  looking  out  for  you.  I've  set 
out  a  table  under  a  beautiful  tree  behind  the  cottage ; 
and  I've  been  gathering  some  of  the  most  delicious 
strawberries,  for  I  know  you  are  fond  of  them — and  we 
have  such  excellent  cream — and  everything  is  so  sweet 
and  still  here — Oh  1 "  said  she,  putting  her  arm  within 
his,  and  looking  up  brightly  in  his  face,  "  Oh,  we  shall  be 
so  happy ! " 

Poor  Leslie  was  overcome.  He  caught  her  to  his 
bosom — he  folded  his  arms  round  her— he  kissed  her 
again  and  again — he  could  not  speak,  but  the  tears 
gushed  into  his  eyes ;  and  he  has  often  assured  me,  that 
though  the  world  has  since  gone  prosperously  with  him, 
and  his  life  has,  indeed,  been  a  happy  one,  yet  never  has 
he  experienced  a  moment  of  more  exquisite  felicity. 


EIP    VAN   WINKLE. 

k  POSTHUMOUS  WBITING  OF  DIEDRICH  KNICKERBOCKEB. 

By  Woden,  God  of  Saxons, 

From  whence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensday, 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 

Unto  thylke  day  in  which  I  creep  into 

My  sepulchre 

CA.RTWRIGHT. 

[The  following  Tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the  late  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New  York,  who  was  very  curious  in 
the  Dutch  history  of  the  province,  and  the  manners  of  the  descendants 
from  its  primitive  settlers.  His  historical  researches,  however,  did  not 
lie  so  much  among  books  as  among  men  ;  for  the  former  are  lamentably 
scanty  on  his  favorite  topics  ;  whereas  he  found  the  old  burghers,  and 
still  more  their  wives,  rich  in  that  legendary  lore,  so  invaluable  to  true 
history.  Whenever,  therefore,  he  happened  upon  a  genuine  Dutch  fam- 
ily, snugly  shut  up  in  its  low-roofed  farmhouse,  under  a  spreading  syca- 
more, he  looked  upon  it  as  a  little  clasped  volume  of  black-letter,  and 
studied  it  with  the  zeal  of  a  book-worm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a  history  of  the  province  during 
the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  published  some  years  since. 
There  have  been  various  opinions  as  to  the  literary  character  of  his  work, 
and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is  not  a  whit  better  than  it  should  be.  Its  chief 
merit  is  its  scrupulous  accuracy,  which  indeed  was  a  little  questioned  on 
its  first  appearance,  but  has  since  been  completely  established  ;  and  it  is 
now  admitted  into  all  historical  collections,  as  a  book  of  unquestionable 
authority. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of  his  work,  and 
now  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do  much  harm  to  his  memory  to 
say  that  his  time  might  have  been  much  better  employed  in  weightier  la- 

50 


THE  KAATSEILL8.  61 

bors.  He,  however,  was  apt  to  ride  his  hobby  his  own  way  ;  and  though 
it  did  now  and  then  kick  up  the  dust  a  little  in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbors, 
and  grieve  the  spirit  of  some  friends,  for  whom  he  felt  the  truest  defer- 
ence and  affection  ;  yet  his  errors  and  follies  are  remembered  "  more  lq 
sorrow  than  in  anger,"  and  it  begins  to  be  suspected,  that  he  never  in- 
tended to  injure  or  offend.  But  however  his  memory  may  be  appreciated 
by  critics,  it  is  still  held  dear  by  many  folks,  whose  good  opinion-  is 
well  worth  having  ;  particularly  by  certain  biscuit-bakers,  who  have  gone 
so  far  as  to  imprint  his  likeness  on  their  new-year  cakes ;  and  have  thus 
given  him  a  chance  for  immortality,  almost  equal  to  the  being  stamped 
on  a  Waterloo  Medal,  or  a  Queen  Anne's  Farthing.] 


HOEVEE  has  made  a  voyage  up  tlie  Hudson 
must  remember  the  Kaatskill  mountains.  They 
are  a  dismembered  branch  of  the  great  Appala- 
chian family,  and  are  seen  away  to  the  west  of  the  river, 
swelling  up  to  a  noble  height,  and  lording  it  over  the 
surrounding  country.  Every  change  of  season,  every 
change  of  weather,  indeed,  every  hour  of  the  day,  pro- 
duces some  change  in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of 
these  mountains,  and  they  are  regarded  by  all  the  good 
wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect  barometers.  When  the 
weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are  clothed  in  blue  and 
purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear  evening 
sky ;  but,  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of  the  landscape  is 
cloudless,  they  will  gather  a  hood  of  gray  vapors  about 
their  summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun, 
will  glow  and  light  up  like  a  crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voyager  may 
have  descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a  village, 


52  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

whose  shingle-roofs  gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where  the 
blue  tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  into  the  fresh  green 
of  the  nearer  landscape.  It  is  a  little  village  of  great 
antiquity,  having  been  founded  by  some  of  the  Dutch 
colonists,  in  the  early  times  of  the  province,  just  about 
the  beginning  of  the  government  of  the  good  Peter  Stuy- 
vesant,  (may  he  rest  in  peace !)  and  there  were  some  of 
the  houses  of  the  original  settlers  standing  within  a  few 
years,  built  of  small  yellow  bricks  brought  from  Holland, 
having  latticed  windows  and  gable  fronts,  surmounted 
with  weather-cocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses 
(which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn  and 
weather-beaten),  there  lived  many  years  since,  while  the 
country  was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain,  a  simple 
good-natured  fellow  of  the  name  of  Eip  Van  Winkle.  He 
was  a  descendant  of  the  Yan  Winkles  who  figured  so  gal- 
lantly in  the  chivalrous  days  of  Peter  Stuyvesant,  and 
accompanied  him  to  the  siege  of  Fort  .C|hris;y[na.  He  in- 
herited, however,  but  little  of  the  jiPa^mlcharacter  of  his 
ancestors.  I  have  observed  that  he  was  a  simple  good- 
natured  man ;  he  was,  moreover,  a  kind  neighbor,  and  an 
obedient  hen-pecked  husband,  i  Indeed,  to  the  latter  cir- 
cumstance might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit  which 
gained  him  such  universal ,  popularity :  for^t^^ose  men  are 
jnost  aijt  to  be  obsequious  and  eraiciii^ 


,^5stJ''PiLlQ™^£j2&.%^^oTis  and  e^La|iMi£g^  abroad,  who 
_,  are  under  the  discipline  of  shrews  at  homQ.|    T^^ir  tem- 
pers, doubtless,  are  rendered  pliant  and  L^pIieaDle  in  the 


BIP   VAN  WINKLE.  53 


fiery  furnace  of  domestic  tribulation ;  and  a  curtain  lec- 
ture is  worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world  for  teaching 
the  virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffering.  A  termagant  ^ 
wife  may,  therefore,  in_  some  respects,  be  considered  a 
tolerable  blessing ;  and  if  so,  Eip  Van  Winkle  was  thrice 
blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great,  favorite  among  all  the  '    " 
good  wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual,  with  the  amiable    ~ 
sex,  took  his  part  in  all  family  squabbles ;   and  never 
failed,  whenever  they  talked  those  matters  over  in  their 
evening  gossipings,  to  lay  all  the  blame  on  Dame  Van 
Winkle.     The  children  of  the  village,  too,  would  shout 
with  joy  whenever  he  approached.     He  assisted  at  their 
sports,  made  their  playthings,  taught  them  to  fly  kites 
and  shoot  marbles,  and  told  them  long  stories  of  ghosts, 
witches,  and  Indians.     Whenever  he  went  dodging  about  "^ 
the  village,  he  was  surrounded  by  a  troop  of  them,  hang-  -^ 
ing  on  his  skirts,  clambering  on  his  back,  and  playing  a 
thousand  tricks  on  him  with  impunity;  and  not  a  dog 
would  bark  at  him  throughout  the  neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's,  composition  was  an  insupera- 
ble aversion  to  all  kinds^  oi  profitable  labor.  _  It  could  not 
Jbfi_&om_tlia_3EajitjQf_assidu^  ;  for  he 

would  sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as 
a  Tartar's  lance,  and  fish  all  day  without  a  murmur,  even 
tEough  he  should  not  be  encouraged  by  a  single  nibble. 
He  would  carry  a  fowling-piece  on  his  shoulder  for  hours 
together,  trudging  through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up 


54  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

hill  and  down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pig- 
eons. He  would  never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor  even 
in  the  roughest  toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  coun- 
try frolics  for  husking  Indian  corn,  or  building  stone- 
fences;  the  women  of  the  village,  too,  used  to  employ 
him  to  run  their  errands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd  jobs 
as  their  less  obliging,  husbands  would  not  do  for  them. 
In  a  word  Kip  was  ready  to  attend  to  anybody's  business 
tot  hia  own^f  but.  as  to  doing  family  duty,  and  keeping 
his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  impossible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his 
farm ;  it  was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground  in 
the  whole  country ;  every  thing  about  it  went  wrong,  and 
would  go  wrong,  in  spite  of  him.  His  fences  were  con- 
tinually falling  to  pieces  ;  his  cow  would  either  go  astray, 
or  get  among  the  cabbages;  weeds  were  sure  to  grow 
quicker  in  his  fields  than  anywhere  else  ;  the  rain  always 
made  a  point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had  some  out-door 
work  to  do ;  so  that  though  his  patrimonial  estate  had 
dwindled  away  under  his  management,  acre  by  acre,  until 
there  was  little  more  left  than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian 
corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it  was  the  worst  conditioned  farm 
in  the  neighborhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they 
belonged  to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten  in 
his  own  likeness,  promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with  the 
old  clothes  of  his  father.  He  was  generally  seen  trooping 
like  a  colt  at  his  mother's  heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of  his 


BIP*a  DOB.  65 

father's  cast-off  galligaskins,  which  he  had  much  ado  to 
hold  up  with  one  hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her  train  in 
bad  weather. 

Eip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy  mor- 
tals, of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the  world 
easy,  eat  white  bread  or  brown,  whichever  can  be  got 
with  least  thought  or  trouble,  and  would  rather  starve  on 
ja^^enny  than  work  for  a  pound.  If  left  to  himself,  he 
jwould  have  whistled  life  away  in  perfect-  contentment ; 
but  his  wife  kept  continually  dinning  in  his  ears  about 
his  idleness,  his  carelessness,  and  the  ruin  he  was  bring- 
ing on  his  family.  Morning,  noon,  and  night,  her  tongue 
was  incessantly  going,  and  everything  he  said  or  did  was 
sure  to  produce  a  torrent  of  household  eloquence.  Rip 
had  but  one  way  of  replying  to  all  lectures  of  the  kind, 
and  that,  by  frequent  use,  had  grown  into  a  habit.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his  head,  cast  up  his  eyes, 
but  said  nothing.  This,  however,  always  provoked  a  fresh 
volley  from  his  wife ;  so  that  he  was  fain  to  draw  off  his 
forces,  and  take  to  the  outside  of  the  house — the  only 
side  which,  in  truth,  belongs  to  a  hen-pecked  husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who- 
was  as  much  hen-pecked  as  his  master ;  for  Dame  Van 
Winkle  regarded  them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and 
even  looked  upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of 
his  master's  going  so  often  astray.  True  it  is,  in  all 
points  of  spirit  befitting  an  honorable  dog,  he  was  as 
courageous  an  animal  as  ever  scoured  the  woods — ^but 


66  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

what  courage  can  withstand  the  ever-during  and  all-be- 
setting terrors  of  a  woman's  tongue  ?  The  moment  Wolf 
entered  the  house  his  crest  fell,  his  tail  drooped  to  the 
ground,  or  curled  between  his  legs,  he  sneaked  about 
with  a  gallows  air,  casting  many  a  sidelong  glance  at 
Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at  the  least  flourish  of  a  broom- 
stick or  ladle,  he  would  fly  to  the  door  with  yelping  pre- 
cipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Eip  Yan  Winkle  as 
years  of  matrimony  rolled  on  ;.jii.tarLjtemperneyer,  mel- 
lows with  ag§i  andj,  sharj^  is  the  only  edged  tool 
ib^i£^2^^_^^®^^^  with  constant  use.  For  a  long  while 
he  used  to  console  himself,  when  driven  from  home,  \}j 
frequenting  a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the  sages,  philos- 
ophers, and  other  idle  personages  of  the  village;  which 
held  its  sessions  on  a  bench  before  a  small  inn,  desig- 
nated by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  His  Majesty  George  the 
Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit  in  the  shade  through  a  long 
lazy  summer's  day,  talking  listlessly  over  village  gos- 
sip, or  telling  endless  sleepy  stories  about  nothing.  But 
it  would  have  been  worth  any  statesman's  money  to  have 
heard  the  profound  discussions  that  sometimes  took  place, 
when  by  chance  an.  old  newspaper  fell  into  their  hands 
from  some  passing  traveller.  How  solemnly  they  would 
listen  to  the  contents,  as  drawled  out  by  Derrick  Van 
Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  a  dapper  learned  little  man, 
who  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most  gigantic  word  in 
the  dictionary;  and  how  sagely  they  would  deliberate 


NICHOLAS   VEDDBB.  67 

upon  public  events  some  months  after  they  had  taken 
place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  controlled 
by  Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village,  and  land- 
lord of  the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took  his  seat  from 
morning  till  night,  just  moving  sufficiently  to  avoid  the 
sun  and  keep  in  the  shade  of  a  large  tree  ;  so  that  the 
neighbors  could  tell  the  hour  by  his  movements  as  accu- 
rately as  by  a  sun-dial.  It  is  true  he  was  rarely  heard  to 
speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe  incessantly.  His  adherents, 
however  (for  every  great  man  has  his  adherents),  perfectly 
understood  him,  and  knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions. 
When  any  thing  that  was  read  or  related  displeased  him, 
he  was  observed  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently,  and  to 
send  forth  short,  frequent  and  angry  puffs  ;  but  when 
pleased,  he  would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly, 
and  emit  it  in  light  and  placid  clouds ;  and  sometimes, 
taking  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant 
vapor  curl  about  his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his  head  in 
token  of  perfect  approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Kip  was  at 
length  routed  by  his  ■termagan|' wife,  who  would  suddenly 
break  in  upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage  and  call 
the  members  all  to  naught ;  nor  was  that  august  person- 
age, Nicholas  Vedder  himseli  sacred  from  the  daring 
tongue  of  thi^  terrible  ^Sag4  who  charged  him  outright 
with  encouraging  her  husband  in  habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Kip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair ;  and 


58  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

his  only  alternative,  to  escape  from  the  labor  of  the  farm 
and  clamor  of  hiswile>  was  to  take  gun  in  hand  and  stroll 
away  into  the  woods.  Here  he  wonld  sometimes  seat 
himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  share  the  contents  of  his 
wallet  with  "Wolf,  with  whom  he  sympathized  as  a  fellow- 
sufferer  in  persecution.  "Poor  Wolf,"  he  would  say,  "thy 
mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's  life  of  it ;  but  never  mind,  my 
lad,  whilst  I  live  thou  shalt  never  want  a  friend  to  stand 
by  thee  !  "  Wolf  would  wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his 
master's  face,  and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity  I  verily  believe  he 
reciprocated  the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal  day, 
Bip  had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest 
parts  of  the  Kaatskill  mountains.  He  was  after  his  favor- 
ite sport  of  squirrel  shooting,  and  the  still  solitudes  had 
echoed  and  re-echoed  with  the  reports  of  his  gun.  Pant- 
ing and  fatigued,  he  threw  himself,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
on  a  green  knoll,  covered  with  mountain  herbage,  that 
crowned  the  brow  of  a  precipice.  From  an  opening  be- 
tween the  trees  he  could  overlook  all  the  lower  country 
for  many  a  mile  of  rich  woodland.  He  saw  at  a  distance 
the  lordly  Hudson,  far,  far  below  him,  moving  on  its  si- 
lent but  majestic  course,  with  the  reflection  of  a  purple 
cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here  and  there  sleep- 
ing on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at  last  losing  itself  in  the 
blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  moun- 
tain glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled 


RIP   VAN  WINKLE.  59 

with  fragments  from  the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely 
lighted  by  the  reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For 
some  time  Eip  lay  musing  on  this  scene;  evening  was 
gradually  advancing ;  the  mountains  began  to  throw  their 
long  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys ;  he  saw  that  it  would 
be  dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village,  and  he 
heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  encountering  the 
terrors  of  Dame  Yan  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from  a 
distance,  hallooing,  "Rip  Yan  Winkle !  Rip  Yan  Winkle ! " 
He  looked  round,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a  crow  wing- 
ing its  solitary  flight  across  the  mountain.  He  thought 
his  fancy  must  have  deceived  him,  and  turned  again  to 
descend,  when  he  heard  the  same  cry  ring  through  the 
still  evening  air;  "Rip  Yan  Winkle  !  Rip  Yan  Winkle !  " 
— at  the  same  time  Wolf  bristled  up  his  back,  and  giving 
a  low  growl,  skulked  to  his  master's  side,  looking  fear- 
fully down  into  the  glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  appre- 
hension stealing  over  him;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the 
same  direction,  and  perceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toil- 
ing up  the  rocks,  and  bending  under  the  weight  of  some- 
thing he  carried  on  his  back.  He  was  surprised  to  see 
any  human  being  in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented  place, 
but  supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighborhood  in 
need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the 
singularity  of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a  short 
square-built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair,  and  a  griz- 


60  THE  SKETGR'BOOK. 

zled  beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion 
— a  cloth  jerkin  strapped  round  the  waist — several  pair 
of  breeches,  the  outer  one  of  ample  volume,  decorated 
with  rows  of  buttons  down  the  sides,  and  bunches  at  the 
knees.  He  bore  on  his  shoulder  a  stout  keg,  that  seemed 
full  of  liquor,  and  made  signs  for  Eip  to  approach  and 
assist  him  with  the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  dis- 
trustful of  this  new  acquaintance,  Bip  complied  with  his 
usual  alacrity ;  and  mutually  relieving  one  another,  they 
clambered  up  a  narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a 
mountain  torrent.  As  they  ascended,  Eip  every  now  and 
then  heard  long  rolling  peals,  like  distant  thunder,  that 
seemed  to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or  rather  cleft,  ber 
tween  lofty  rocks,  toward  which  their  rugged  path  con- 
ducted. He  paused  for  an  instant,  but  supposing  it  to  be 
the  muttering  of  one  of  those  transient  thunder-showers 
which  often  take  place  in  mountain  heights,  he  pro- 
ceeded. Passing  through  the  ravine,  they  came  to  a 
hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheatre,  surrounded  by  per- 
pendicular precipices,  over  the  brinks  of  which  impend- 
ing trees  shot  their  branches,  so  that  you  only  caught 
glimpses  of  the  azure  sky  and  the  bright  evening  cloud. 
During  the  whole  time  Rip  and  his  companion  had  la- 
bored on  in  silence ;  for  though  the  former  marvelled 
greatly  what  could  be  the  object  of  carrying  a  keg  of 
liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet  there  was  something 
.straag^  -and  iQCQmprBheiLaible  about  the,  .unknown,  that 
iaspired-awa-iuid-checkBdJamiliarity. 


TBE  GAME  OF  NINE^PINS.  61 

On  entering  the  amphitlieatre,  new  objects  of  wondei 
presented  themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre  was 
a  company  of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at  nine- 
pins. They  were  dressed  in  a  quaint  outlandish  fash- 
ion; some  wore  short  doublets,  others  jerkins,  with 
long  knives  in  their  belts,  and  most  of  them  had  enor- 
mous breeches,  of  similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide's. 
Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar :  one  had  a  large  beard, 
broad  face,  and  small  piggish  eyes :  the  face  of  another 
seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was  surmount- 
ed by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat  set  off  with  a  little  red 
cock's  tail.  They  all  had  beards,  of  various  shapes 
and  colors.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to  be  the 
commander.  He  was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with  a 
weather-beaten  countenance ;  he  wore  a  laced  doublet, 
broad  belt  and  hanger,  high-crowned  hat  and  feather, 
red  stockings,  and  high  -  heeled  shoes,  with  roses  in 
them.  The  whole  group  reminded  Kip  of  the  figures 
in  an  old  Flemish  painting,  in  the  parlor  of  Dominie 
Van  Shaick,  the  village  parson,  and  which  had  been 
brought  over  from  Holland  at  the  time  of  the  settle- 
ment. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Eip  was,  that  though 
these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet  they 
maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious  si- 
lence, a,nd  were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy  party  of 
pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed.  Nothing  interrupted 
the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the  noise  of  the  balls, 


62  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

whicli,  wheneyer  they  were  rolled,  echoed  along  the 
mountains  like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Eip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they  sud- 
denly desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him  with 
such  fixed  statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth, 
lack-lustre  countenances,  that  his  heart  turned  within 
him,  and  his  knees  smote  together.  His  companion  now 
emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg  into  large  flagons,  and 
made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon  the  company.  He 
obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling ;  they  quaffed  the  liquor 
in  profound  silence,  and  then  returned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees  Eip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided.  He 
even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste 
the  beverage,  which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavor  of 
excellent  Hollands.  He  was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and 
was  soon  tempted  to  repeat  the  draught.  One  taste  pro- 
voked another ;  and  he  reiterated  his  visits  to  the  flagon 
so  often  that  at  length  his  senses  were  overpowered,  his 
eyes  swam  in  his  head,  his  head  gradually  declined,  and 
he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll  whence 
he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He  rubbed  his 
eyes — it  was  a  bright  sunny  morning.  The  birds  were 
hopping  and  twittering  among  the  bushes,  and  the  eagle 
was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breasting  the  pure  mountain 
breeze.  "  Surely,"  thought  Eip,  "  I  have  not  slept  here 
all  night."  He  recalled  the  occurrences  before  he  fell 
asleep.     The   strange   man  with   a  keg  of  liquor — the 


RIP'S  A  WAKING.  63 

mountain  ravine — the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks — the 
woe-begone  party  at  nine-pins — the  flagon — "Oh!  that 
flagon!  that  wicked  flagon!  "  thought  Rip — '*  what  excuse 
shall  I  make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle !  " 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean 
well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  firelock  lying  by 
him,  the  barrel  incrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  ofl", 
and  the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now  suspected  that  the 
grave  roysters  of  the  mountain  had  put  a  trick  upon  him, 
and,  having  dosed  him  with  liquor,  had  robbed  him  of 
his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  disappeared,  but  he  might  have 
strayed  away  after  a  squirrel  or  partridge.  He  whistled 
after  him  and  shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain ;  the 
echoes  repeated  his  whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to 
be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  evening's 
gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to  demand 
his  dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  himself 
stiff  in  the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his  usual  activity. 
"  These  mountain  beds  do  not  agree  with  me,"  thought 
Rip,  "  and  if  this  frolic  should  lay  me  up  with  a  fit  of  the 
rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a  blessed  time  with  Dame  Van 
Winkle."  With  some  difficulty  he  got  down  into  the 
glen :  he  found  the  gully  up  which  he  and  his  companion 
had  ascended  the  preceding  evening  ;  but  to  his  astonish- 
ment a  mountain  stream  was  now  foaming  down  it,  leap- 
ing from  rock  to  rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling 
murmurs.     He,  however,  made  shift  to  scramble  up  its 


04  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

sides,  working  his  toilsome  way  through  thickets  ol 
birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel,  and  sometimes  tripped 
up  or  entangled  by  the  wild  grapevines  that  twisted  their 
coils  or  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind  of 
network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened 
through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre  ;  but  no  traces  of 
such  opening  remained.  The  rocks  presented  a  high  im- 
penetrable wall  over  which  the  torrent  came  tumbling  in 
a  sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and  fell  into  a  broad  deep  basin, 
black  from  the  shadows  of  the  surrounding  forest.  Here, 
then,  poor  Eip  was  brought  to  a  stand.  He  again  called 
and  whistled  after  his  dog  ;  he  was  only  answered  by  the 
cawing  of  a  flock  of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about 
a  dry  tree  that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice ;  and  who,  se- 
cure in  their  elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at 
the  poor  man's  perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  the 
morning  was  passing  away,  and  Kip  felt  famished  for 
want  of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog  and 
gun  ;.  he  dreaded  to  meaLMsjidfe^-lbjaiitJKQuld  n^^^ 
starYe^^mong  the  jnountama.  He  shook  his  head,  shoul- 
dered the  rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a  heart  full  of  trouble 
and  anxiety,  turned  his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  number  of  peo- 
ple, but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  surprised 
him,  for  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted  with  every 
one  in  the  country  round.  Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a 
different  fashion  from  that  to  which  he  was  accustomed. 


RIP'8  RETURN.  66 

rhey  all  stared  at  him  with  equal  marks  of  surprise,  and 
whenever  they  cast  their  eyes  upon  him,  invariably 
stroked  their  chins.  The  constant  recurrence  of  this 
gesture  induced  Eip,  involuntarily,  to  do  the  same,  when, 
to  his  astonishment,  he  found  his  beard  had  grown  a  foot 
long! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A  troop 
of  strange  children  mSv^M^^M  after  him, 

and  pointing  at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  one 
of  which  he  recognized  for  an  old  acquaintance,  barked  at 
him  as  he  passed.  The  very  village  was  altered ;  it  was 
larger  and  more  populous.  There  were  rows  of  houses 
which  he  had  never  seen  before,  and  those  which  had 
been  his  familiar  haunts  had  disappeared.  Strange 
names  were  over  the  doors — strange  faces  at  the  windows 
— every  thing  was  strange.  His  mind  now  misgave  him ; 
he  began  to  doubt  whether  both  he  and  the  v/orld  around 
him  were  not  bewitched.  Surely  this  was  his  native  vil- 
lage, which  he  had  left  but  the  day  before.  There  stood 
the  Kaatskill  mountains — there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at 
a  distance — there  was  every  hill  and  dale  precisely  as  it 
had  always  been  —  Eip  was  sorely  perplexed  —  "  That 
flagon  last  night,"  thought  he,  "  has  addled  my  poor  head 
sadly!" 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way  to  his 
own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  expect- 
ing every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van 
Winkle.  He  found  the  house  gone  to  decay — the  roof 
0 


66  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

fallen  in,  tlie  windows  shattered,  and  the  doors  off  the 
hinges.  A  half-starved  dog  that  looked  like  Wolf  was 
skulking  about  it.  Rip  called  him  by  name,  but  the  cur 
snarled,  showed  his  teeth,  and  passed  on.  This  was  an 
unkind  cut  indeed — "My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Eip, 
"  has  forgotten  me  !  " 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  .Dame 
Van  Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was 
empty,  forlorn,  and  apparently  abandoned.  This  deso- 
lateness  overcame  all  his  connubial  fears  — ^e  called 
loudly  for  his.  wife  and  children — the  lonely  chambei;s 
rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voice,  and  then  all  again  was 
silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort, 
the  village  inn — but  it  too  was  gone.  A  large  rickety 
wooden  building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping 
windows,  some  of  them  broken  and  mended  with  old  hats 
and  petticoats,  and  over  the  door  was  painted,  "the 
Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle."  Instead  of  the 
great  tree  that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little  Dutch  inn 
of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a  tall  naked  pole,  with 
something  on  the  top  that  looked  like  a  red  night-cap, 
and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on  which  was  a  singular 
assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes — all  this  was  strange  and 
incomprehensible.  He  recognized  on  the  sign,  however, 
the  ruby  face  of  King  George,  under  which  he  had 
smoked  so  many  a  peaceful  pipe ;  but  even  this  was  sin- 
gularly metamorphosed.     The  red  coat  was  changed  for 


RIP'S  RETURN.  67 

one  of  blue  and  buff,  a  sword  was  held  in  the  hand  in- 
stead of  a  sceptre,  the  head  was  decorated  with  a  cocked 
hat,  and  underneath  was  paiiited  in  large  characters, 
Genebal  Washington. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door, 
but  none  that  Kip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  the 
people  seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling, 
disputatious  tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accustomed 
phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity.  He  looked  in  vain  for 
the  sage  Nicholas  Yedder,  with  his  broad  face,  double 
chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering  clouds  of  tobacco- 
smoke  instead  of  idle  speeches;  or  Yan  Bummel,  the 
schoolmaster,  doling  forth  the  contents  of  an  ancient 
newspaper.  In  place  of  these,  a  lean,  bilious-looking 
fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of  handbills,  was  haranguing 
vehemently  about  rights  of  citizens — elections — members 
of  congress — liberty — Bunker's  Hill — heroes  of  seventy- 
six — and  other  words,  which  were  a  perfect  Babylonish 
jargon  to  the  bewildered  Yan  "Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Eip,  with  his  long  grizzled  beard, 
his  rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army 
of  women  and  children  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  tavern  politicians.  They  crowded  round 
him,  eyeing  him  from  head  to  foot  with  great  curiosity. 
The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and,  drawing  him  partly 
aside,  inquired  "on  which  side  he  voted?"  Rip  stared  in 
vacant  stupidity.  Another  short  but  busy  little  fellow 
pulled  him  by  the  arm,  and,  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in 


68  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

his  ear,  "Whether  he  was  Federal  or  Democrat?"  Eip 
was  equally  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  the  question ;  when  a 
knowing,  self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp  cocked 
hat,  made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  putting  them  to 
the  right  and  left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed,  and 
planting  himself  before  Van  Winkle,  with  one  arm  akim- 
bo, the  other  resting  on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and  sharp 
hat  penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul,  demanded 
in  an  austere  tone,  "what  brought  him  to  the  election 
with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his  heels,  and 
whether  he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village  ?"-t- 
"Alas!  gentlemen,"  cried  Kip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "I 
am  a  poor  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal 
subject  of  the  king,  God  bless  him ! " 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  by-standers — "A 
tory !  a  tory !  a  spy !  a  refugee !  hustle  him !  away  with 
him ! "  It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important 
man  in  the  cocked  hat  restored  order ;  and,  having  as- 
sumed a  tenfold  austerity  of  brow,  demanded  again  of  the 
unknown  culprit,  what  he  came  there  for,  and  whom  he 
was  seeking?  The  poor  man  humbly  assured  him  that  he 
meant  no  harm,  but  merely  came  there  in  search  of  some 
of  his  neighbors,  who  used  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

"Well — who  are  they? — name  them." 

Kip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired, "  Where's 
Nicholas  Vedder?" 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old  man 
replied,  in  a  thin  piping  voice,  "Nicholas  Yedder!  why, 


RIP'S  BETUBN.  69 

he  is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years !  There  was  a 
wooden  tombstone  in  the  church-yard  that  used  to  tell 
all  about  him,  but  that's  rotten  and  gone  too." 

"Where's  Brom  Dutcher?" 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the 
war;  some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony 
Point — others  say  he  was  drowned  in  a  squall  at  the  foot 
of  Antony's  Nose.  I  don't  know — he  never  came  back 
again." 

"  Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster  ?  " 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars  too,  was  a  great  militia  gen- 
eral, and  is  now  in  congress." 

Eip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes 
in  his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone 
in  the  world.  Every  answer  puzzled  him  too,  by  treat- 
ing of  such  enormous  lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters 
which  he  could  not  understand  :  war — congress — Stony 
Point ; — he  had  no  courage  to  ask  after  any  more  friends, 
but  cried  out  in  despair,  "  Does  nobody  here  know  Eip 
Van  Winkle?" 

"  Oh,  Eip  Van  Winkle  !  "  exclaimed  two  or  three,  ^*  Oh, 
to  be  sure !  that's  Eip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning 
against  the  tree." 

Eip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  him- 
self, as  he  went  up  the  mountain :  apparently  as  lazy, 
and  certainly  as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  com- 
pletely confounded.  He  doubted  his  own  identity,  and 
whether  he  was  himself  or  another  man.     In  the  midst 


70  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

of  his  bewilderment,  tlie  man  in  the  cocked  hat  demanded 
who  he  was,  and  what  was  his  name  ? 

"God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end;  "I'm 
not  myself — I'm  somebody  else — that's  me  yonder — no — 
that's  somebody  else  got  into  my  shoes — I  was  myself 
last  night,  but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and  they've 
changed  my  gun,  and  every  thing's  changed,  and  I'm 
changed,  and  I  can't  tell  what's  my  name,  or  who  I 
am!" 

The  by-standers  began  now  to  look  at  each  other,  nod, 
wink  significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against  their 
foreheads.  There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the 
gun,  and  keeping  the  old  fellow  from  doing  mischief,  at 
the  very  suggestion  of  which  the  self-important  man  in 
the  cocked  hat  retired  with  some  precipitation.  At  this 
critical  moment  a  fresh  comely  woman  pressed  through 
the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at  the  gray-bearded  man.  She 
had  a  chubby  child  in  her  arms,  which,  frightened  at  his 
looks,  began  to  cry.  "  Hush,  Hip,"  cried  she,  "  hush,  you 
little  fool ;  the  old  man  won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of 
the  child,  the  air  of  the  mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice, 
all  awakened  a  train  of  recollections  in  his  mind.  "  "What 
is  your  name,  my  good  woman  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  Judith  Gardenier." 

"  And  your  father's  name  ?  " 

"  Ah,  poor  man.  Kip  Yan  Winkle  was  his  name,  but  it's 
twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his 
gun,  and  never  has  been  heard  of  since — his  dog  came 


RIP'S  RETURN.  71 

home  without  him ;  but  whether  he  shot  himself,  or  was 
carried  away  by  the  Indians,  nobody  can  tell.  I  was 
then  but  a  little  girl." 

Kip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask  ;  but  he  put  it 
with  a  faltering  voice  : 

"Where's  your  mother?  '* 

"  Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since  ;  she 
broke  a  blood-vessel  iiLaj&t  pf  passion  at-a  Hew-England 
peddler." 

Ther^jv^s  a_dro^^^  least,  in  this  intelli- 

gence. The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer. 
He  caught  his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  "I 
am  your  father  ! "  cried  he — "  Young  Eip  Van  "Winkle 
once — old  Eip  Van  Winkle  now ! — Does  nobody  know 
poor  Kip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out 
from  among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and 
peering  under  it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed, 
"  Sure  enough  !  it  is  Kip  Van  Winkle — it  is  himself ! 
Welcome  home  again,  old  neighbor — Why,  where  have 
you  been  these  twenty  long  years  ?  " 

Kip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  years 
had  been  to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neighbors  stared 
when  they  heard  it ;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each 
other,  and  put  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks  :  and  the  self- 
important  man  in  the  cocked  hat,  who,  when  the  alarm 
was  over,  had  returned  to  the  field,  screwed  down  the 
comers  of  his  mouth,  and  shook  his  head — upon  which 


72  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

there  was  a  general  shaking  of  the  head  throughout  the 
assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of  old 
Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing  up 
the  road.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  historian  of  that 
name,  who  wrote  one  of  the  earliest  accounts  of  the  pro- 
vince. Peter  was  the  most  ancient  inhabitant  of  the  vil- 
lage, and  well  versed  in  all  the  wonderful  events  and 
traditions  of  the  neighborhood.  He  recollected  Kip  at 
once,  and  corroborated  his  story  in  the  most  satisfactory 
manner.  He  assured  the  company  that  it  was  a  fact, 
handed  down  from  his  ancestor  the  historian,  that  the 
Kaatskill  mountains  had  always  been  haunted  by  strange 
beings.  That  it  was  affirmed  that  the  great  Hendrick 
Hudson,  the  first  discoverer  of  the  river  and  country,  kept 
a  kind  of  vigil  there  every  twenty  years,  with  his  crew  of 
the  Half-moon ;  being  permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit  the 
scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and  keep  a  guardian  eye  upon 
the  river,  and  the  great  city  called  by  his  name.  That 
his  father  had  once  seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch  dresses 
playing  at  nine-pins  in  a  hollow  of  the  mountain;  and 
that  he  himself  had  heard,  one  summer  afternoon,  the 
sound  of  their  balls,  like  distant  peals  of  thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up,  and 
returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the  election. 
Eip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her ;  she  had 
a  snug,  well-furnished  house,  and  a  stout  cheery  farmer 
for  a  husband,   whom   Eip   recollected  for   one  of  the 


HIP'S  QUIET  OLD  AGE.  73 

urchins  that  used  to  climb  upon  his  back.  As  to  Eip's 
son  and  heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of  himself,  seen  leaning 
against  the  tree,  he  was  employed  to  work  on  the  farm ; 
but  evinced  an  hereditary  disposition  to  attend  to  any 
thing  else  but  his  business. 

Kip  now  resumed„his  .old  w^^  and  habits  ;  he  soon 
found  jnany  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather  the 
worse  for  the  wear  and  tear  of  time  ;  and  preferred  mak- 
ing friends  among  the  rising  generation,  with  whom  he 
soon  grew  into  great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  -  do  at,  Lome,  and  being-  a^-riv:©d  .at 
th^t  happ.y:^fijsian^a_man  ^^  impunity,  he 

took  his  place  once  niore^j^njfche  bench  at  the  inn  door, 
and  was  reverenced  as  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village, 
and  a  chronicle  of  the  old  times  "  before  the  war."  It 
was  some  time  before  he  could  get  into  the  regular  track 
of  gossip,  or  could  be  made  to  comprehend  the  strange 
events  that  had  taken  place  during  his  torpor.  How  that 
there  had  been  a  revolutionary  war — that  the  country  had 
thrown  off  the  yoke  of  old  England — and  that,  instead  of 
being  a  subject  of  his  Majesty  George  the  Third,  he  was 
now  a  free  citizen  of  the  United  States.  Eip,  in  fact,  was 
no  politician ;  the  changes  of  states  and  empires  made 
but  little  impression  on  him  ;  but  there  was  one  species 
of  despotism  under  which  he  had  long  groaned,  and  that 
was — petticoat  government.  Happily  that  was  at  an  end ; 
•he  had  got-hia.jiack.jm.LQlJlia.y.oj£e_Qf.jn  and 

could  go  in  and  out  whenever  he  pleased,  without  dread- 


74  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ing  the  tyrannj  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her 
name  was  mentioned,  however,  he  shook  his  head, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  cast  up  his  eyes;  which 
might  pass  either  for  an  expression  of  resignation  to 
his  fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  arrived 
at  Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at  first,  to 
vary  on  some  points  every  time  he  told  it,  which  was. 
doubtless,  owing  to  his  having  so  recently  awaked.  It  at 
last  settled  down  precisely  to  the  tale  I  have  related,  and 
not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  the  neighborhood,  but 
knew  it  by  heart.  Some  always  pretended  to  doubt  the 
reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that  Eip  had  been  out  of  his 
head,  and  that  this  was  one  point  on  which  he  always 
remained  flighty.  The  old  Dutch  inhabitants,  however, 
almost  universally  gave  it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day 
they  never  hear  a  thunderstorm  of  a  summer  afternoon 
about  the  Kaatskill,  but  they  say  Hendrick  Hudson  and 
his  crew  are  at  their  game  of  nine-pins ;  and  it  is  a  com- 
mon wish  of  all  hen-pecked  husbands  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, when  life  hangs  heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they 
might  have  a  quieting  draught  out  of  Kip  Van  Winkle's 
flagon. 

NOTE. 

The  foregoing  Tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been  suggested  to  Mr. 
Knickerbocker  by  a  little  German  superstition  about  the  Emperor  Fred- 
erick der  Rotlibart,  and  the  Kypphatiser  mountain  :  the  subjoined  note, 
however,  which  he  had  appended  to  the  tale,  shows  that  it  is  an  absolute 
fact,  narrated  with  his  usual  fidelity  : 


POSTSCRIPT.  75 

"The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to  many,  but 
nevertheless  I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  1  know  the  vicinity  of  our  old 
Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  very  subject  to  marvellous  events  and 
appearances.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  many  stranger  stories  than  this,  in 
the  villages  along  the  Hudson  ;  all  of  which  were  too  well  authenticated 
to  admit  of  a  doubt.  1  have  even  talked  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  myself, 
who,  when  last  I  saw  him,  was  a  very  venerable  old  man,  and  so  perfectly 
rational  and  consistent  on  every  other  point,  that  1  think  no  conscien- 
tious person  could  refuse  to  take  this  into  the  bargain ;  nay,  1  have  seen  a 
certificate  on  the  subject  taken  before  a  country  justice  and  signed  with  a 
cross,  in  the  justice's  own  handwriting.  The  story,  therefore,  is  beyond 
the  possibility  of  doubt. 

D.  K." 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The  following  are  travelling  notes  from  a  memorandum-book  of  Mr. 
Knickerbocker : 

The  Kaatsberg,  or  Catskill  mountains,  have  always  been  a  region  full 
of  fable.  The  Indians  considered  them  the  abode  of  spirits,  who  influ- 
enced the  weather,  spreading  sunshine  or  clouds  over  the  landscape,  and 
sending  good  or  bad  hunting  seasons.  They  were  ruled  by  an  old  squaw 
spirit,  said  to  be  their  mother.  She  dwelt  on  the  highest  peak  of  the 
Catskills,  and  had  charge  of  the  doors  of  day  and  night  to  open  and  shut 
them  at  the  proper  hour.  She  hung  up  the  new  moons  in  the  skies,  and 
cut  up  the  old  ones  into  stars.  In  times  of  drought,  if  properly  propi- 
tiated, she  would  spin  light  summer  clouds  out  of  cobwebs  and  morning 
dew,  and  send  them  off  from  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  flake  after  flake, 
like  flakes  of  carded  cotton,  to  float  in  the  air  ;  until,  dissolved  by  the 
heat  of  the  sun,  they  would  fall  in  gentle  showers,  causing  the  grass  to 
spring,  the  fruits  to  ripen,  and  the  corn  to  grow  an  inch  an  hour.  If 
displeased,  however,  she  would  brew  up  clouds  black  as  ink,  sitting  in 
the  midst  of  them  like  a  bottle-bellied  spider  in  the  midst  of  its  web  ;  and 
when  these  clouds  broke,  woe  betide  the  valleys  ! 

In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions,  there  was  a  kind  of  Manitou  or 
Spirit,  who  kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the  CatskiU  Mountains,  and 
took  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  wreaking  all  kinds  of  evils  and  vexations 
upon  the  red  men.  Sometimes  he  would  assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a 
panther,  or  a  deer,  lead  the  bewildered  hunter  a  weary  chase  through 
tangled  forests  and  among  ragged  rocks  ;  and  then  spring  off  with  a  loud 


76  THE  aEETCH'BOOE. 

ho  I  ho  I  leaving  him  aghast  on  the  brink  of  a  beetling  precipice  or  rag- 
ing torrent. 

The  favorite  abode  of  this  Manitou  is  still  shown.  It  is  a  great  rock  or 
cliff  on  the  loneliest  part  of  the  mountains,  and,  from  the  flowering  vines 
which  clamber  about  it,  and  the  wild  flowers  which  abound  in  its  neigh- 
borhood, is  known  by  the  name  of  the  Garden  Rock.  Near  the  foot  of  it 
is  a  small  lake,  the  haunt  of  the  solitary  bittern,  with  water-snakes  bask- 
ing in  the  sun  on  the  leaves  of  the  pond-lilies  which  lie  on  the  surface. 
This  place  was  held  in  great  awe  by  the  Indians,  insomuch  that  the  bold- 
est hunter  would  not  pursue  his  game  within  its  precincts.  Once  upon  a 
time,  however,  a  hunter  who  had  lost  his  way,  penetrated  to  the  garden 
rock,  where  he  beheld  a  number  of  gourds  placed  in  the  crotches  of  trees. 
One  of  these  he  seized  and  made  off  with  it,  but  in  the  hurry  of  his  re- 
treat he  let  it  fall  among  the  rocks,  when  a  great  stream  gushed  forth, 
which  washed  him  away  and  swept  him  down  precipices,  where  he  was 
dashed  to  pieces,  and  the  stream  made  its  way  to  the  Hudson,  and  con- 
tinues to  flow  to  the  present  day  ;  being  the  identical  stream  known  by 
the  name  of  the  Kaaters-kill. 


ENGLISH  WEITERS  ON  AMERICA. 

"Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puissant  nation,  rousing  herself 
like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks :  methinks  I 
see  her  as  an  eagle,  mewing  her  mighty  youth,  and  kindling  her  undazzled 
eyes  at  the  full  midday  beam." 

Milton  on  the  Liberty  of  the  Press. 

Ip^^^i^lT  is  with  feelings  of  deep  regret  that  I  observe 
I^sIP*^  the  literary  animosity  daily  growing  up  between 
ii^Mill^J  England  and  America.  Great  curiosity  has  been 
awakened  of  late  with  respect  to  the  United  States,  and 
the  London  press  has  teemed  with  volumes  of  trav- 
els through  the  Eepublic;  but  they  seem  intended  to 
diffuse  error  rather  than  knowledge ;  and  so  successful 
have  they  been,  that,  notwithstanding  the  constant  in- 
tercourse between  the  nations,  there  is  no  people  con- 
cerning whom  the  great  mass  of  the  British  public  have 
less  pure  information,  or  entertain  more  numerous  pre- 
judices. 

English  travellers  are  the  best  and  the  worst  in  the 
world.  Where  no  motives  of  pride  or  interest  intervene, 
none  can  equal  them  for  profound  and  philosophical 
views  of  society,  or  faithful  and  graphical  descriptions  of 
external  objects ;  but  when  either  the  interest  or  reputa- 

77 


78  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

tion  of  their  own  country  comes  in  collision  with  that  of 
another,  they  go  to  the  opposite  extreme,  and  forget 
their  usual  probity  and  candor,  in  the  indulgence  of 
splenetic  remark,  and  an  illiberal  spirit  of  ridicule. 

Hence,  their  travels  are  more  honest  and  accurate,  the 
more  remote  the  country  described.  I  would  place  im- 
plicit confidence  in  an  Englishman's  descriptions  of  the 
regions  beyond  the  cataracts  of  the  Nile ;  of  unknown 
islands  in  the  Yellow  Sea ;  of  the  interior  of  India ;  or 
of  any  other  tract  which  other  travellers  might  be  apt 
to  picture  out  with  the  illusions  of  their  fancies  ;  but  I 
would  cautiously  receive  his  account  of  his  immediate 
neighbors,  and  of  those  nations  with  which  he  is  in  hab- 
its of  most  frequent  intercourse.  However  I  might  be  dis- 
posed to  trust  his  probity,  I  dare  not  trust  his  prejudices* 

It  has  also  been  the  peculiar  lot  of  our  country  to  be 
visited  by  the  worst  kind  of  English  travellers.  While 
men  of  philosophical  spirit  and  cultivated  minds  have 
been  sent  from  England  to  ransack  the  poles,  to  pene- 
trate the  deserts,  and  to  study  the  manners  and  customs 
of  barbarous  nations,  with  which  she  can  have  no  per- 
manent intercourse  of  profit  or  pleasure  ;  it  has  been  left 
to  the  broken-down  tradesman,  the  scheming  adventurer, 
the  wandering  mechanic,  the  Manchester  and  Birming- 
ham agent,  to  be  her  oracles  respecting  America.  From 
such  sources  she  is  content  to  receive  her  information 
respecting  a  country  in  a  singular  state  of  moral  and 
physical  development;  a  country  in  which  one  of   the 


ENaLISE  WBITEBa  ON  AMEBICA.  79 

greatest  political  experiments  in  the  history  of  the  world 
is  now  performing  ;  and  which  presents  the  most  pro- 
found and  momentous  studies  to  the  statesman  and  the 
philosopher. 

That  such  men  should  give  prejudicial  accounts  of 
America  is  not  a  matter  of  surprise.  The  themes  it  of- 
fers for  contemplation  are  too  vast  and  elevated  for  their 
capacities.  The  national  character  is  yet  in  a  state  of 
fermentation  ;  it  may  have  its  frothiness  and  sediment, 
but  its  ingredients  are  sound  and  wholesome  ;  it  has  al- 
ready given  proofs  of  powerful  and  generous  qualities; 
and  the  whole  promises  to  settle  down  into  something 
substantially  excellent.  But  the  causes  which  are  oper- 
ating to  strengthen  and  ennoble  it,  and  its  daily  indica- 
tions of  admirable  properties,  are  all  lost  upon  these 
purblind  observers  ;  who  are  only  affected  by  the  little 
asperities  incident  to  its  present  situation.  They  are 
capable  of  judging  only  of  the  surface  of  things ;  of  those 
matters  which  come  in  contact  with  their  private  inter- 
ests and  personal  gratifications.  They  miss  some  of  the 
snug  conveniences  and  petty  comforts  which  belong  to  an 
old,  highly-finished,  and  over-populous  state  of  society; 
where  the  ranks  of  useful  labor  are  crowded,  and  many 
earn  a  painful  and  servile  subsistence  by  studying  the 
very  caprices  of  appetite  and  self-indulgence.  These 
minor  comforts,  however,  are  all-important  in  the  estima- 
tion of  narrow  minds ;  which  either  do  not  perceive,  or 
will  not  acknowledge,  that  they  are  more  than  counter- 


80  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

balanced  among  us  by  great  and  generally  diffused  bless- 
ings. 

They  may,  perhaps,  have  been  disappointed  in  some 
unreasonable  expectation  of  sudden  gain.  They  may 
have  pictured  America  to  themselves  an  El  Dorado, 
where  gold  and  silver  abounded,  and  the  natives  were 
lacking  in  sagacity ;  and  where  they  were  to  become 
strangely  and  suddenly  rich,  in  some  unforeseen,  but  easy 
manner.  The  same  weakness  of  mind  that  indulges  ab- 
surd expectations  produces  petulance  in  disappointment. 
Such  persons  become  embittered  against  the  country  on 
finding  that  there,  as  everywhere  else,  a  man  must  sow 
before  he  can  reap  •  iraist  win  wealth  by  industry  and 
talent;  and  must  contend  with  the  common  difficulties 
of  nature,  and  the  shrewdness  of  an  intelligent  and  en- 
terprising people. 

Perhaps,  through  mistaken,  or  ill-directed  hospitality, 
or  from  the  prompt  disposition  to  cheer  and  countenance 
the  stranger,  prevalent  among  my  countrymen,  they  may 
have  been  treated  with  unwonted  respect  in  America ;  and 
having  been  accustomed  all  their  lives  to  consider  them- 
selves below  the  surface  of  good  society,  and  brought  up 
in  a  servile  feeling  of  inferiority,  they  become  arrogant 
on  the  common  boon  of  civility:  they  attribute  to  the 
lowliness  of  others  their  own  elevation ;  and  underrate  a 
society  where  there  are  no  artificial  distinctions,  and 
where,  by  any  chance,  such  individuals  as  themselves  can 
rise  to  consequence. 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.  81 

One  would  suppose,  however,  tliat  information  coming 
from  such  sources,  on  a  subject  where  the  truth  is  so  de- 
sirable, would  be  received  with  caution  by  the  censors  of 
the  press ;  that  the  motives  of  these  men,  their  veracity, 
their  opportunities  of  inquiry  and  observation,  and  their 
capacities  for  judging  correctly,  would  be  rigorously  scru- 
tinized before  their  evidence  was  admitted,  in  such  sweep- 
ing extent,  against  a  kindred  nation.  The  very  reverse, 
however,  is  the  case,  and  it  furnishes  a  striking  instance 
of  human  inconsistency.  Nothing  can  surpass  the  vigi- 
lance with  which  English  critics  will  examine  the  credi- 
bility of  the  traveller  who  publishes  an  account  of  some 
distant,  and  comparatively  unimportant  country.  How 
warily  will  they  compare  the  measurements  of  a  pyramid, 
or  the  descriptions  of  a  ruin ;  and  how  sternly  will  they 
censure  any  inaccuracy  in  these  contributions  of  merely 
curious  knowledge  :  while  they  will  receive,  with  eager- 
ness and  unhesitating  faith,  the  gross  misrepresentations 
of  coarse  and  obscure  writers,  concerning  a  country  with 
which  their  own  is  placed  in  the  most  important  and 
delicate  relations.  Nay,  they  will  even  make  these  apoc- 
ryphal volumes  text-books,  on  which  to  enlarge  with  a 
zeal  and  an  ability  worthy  of  a  more  generous  cause. 

I  shall  not,  however,  dwell  on  this  irksome  and  hack- 
neyed topic ;  nor  should  I  have  adverted  to  it,  but  for 
the  undue  interest  apparently  taken  in  it  by  my  country- 
men, and  certain  injurious  effects  which  I  apprehend  it 
might  produce  upon  the  national  feeling.     We  attach  too 


Cip'i^ 


82  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

mucli  consequence  to  these  attacks.  They  cannot  do  us 
any  essential  injury.  The  tissue  of  misrepresentations 
attempted  to  be  woven  round  us  are  like  cobwebs  woven 
round  the  limbs  of  an  infant  giant.  Our  country  contin- 
ually outgrows  them.  One  falsehood  after  another  falls 
off  of  itself.  We  have  but  to  live  on,  and  every  day  we 
live  a  whole  volume  of  refutation. 

All  the  writers  of  England  united,  if  we  could  for  a  mo- 
ment suppose  their  great  minds  stooping  to  so  unworthy 
a  combination,  could  not  conceal  our  rapidly-growing 
importance,  and  matchless  prosperity.  They  could  not 
conceal  that  these  are  owing,  not  merely  to  physical  and 
local,  but  also  to  moral  causes — to  the  political  liberty, 
the  general  diffusion  of  knowledge,  the  prevalence  of 
sound  moral  and  religious  principles,  which  give  force 
and  sustained  energy  to  the  character  of  a  people ;  and 
which,  in  fact,  have  been  the  acknowledged  and  wonder- 
ful supporters  of  their  own  national  power  and  glory. 

But  why  are  we  so  exquisitely  alive  to  the  aspersions 
of  England  ?  Why  do  we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  so  affected 
by  the  contumely  she  has  endeavored  to  cast  upon  us  ? 
It  is  not  in  the  opinion  of  England  alone  that  honor  lives, 
and  reputation  has  its  being.  The  world  at  large  is  the 
arbiter  of  a  nation's  fame  ;  with  its  thousand  eyes  it  wit- 
nesses a  nation's  deeds,  and  from  their  collective  testi- 
mony is  national  glory  or  national  disgrace  established. 

For  ourselves,  therefore,  it  is  comparatively  of  but  lit- 
tle importance  whether  England  does  U8  justice  or  not ;  it 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.  83 

iSj  perhaps,  of  far  more  importance  to  herself.  She  is  in- 
stilling anger  and  resentment  into  the  bosom  of  a  youth- 
ful nation,  to  grow  with  its  growth  and  strengthen  with 
its  strength.  If  in  America,  as  some  of  her  writers  are 
laboring  to  convince  her,  she  is  hereafter  to  find  an  in- 
vidious rival,  and  a  gigantic  foe,  she  may  thank  those 
very  writers  for  having  provoked  rivalship  and  irritated 
hostility.  Every  one  knows  the  all-pervading  influence 
of  literature  at  the  present  day,  and  how  much  the  opin- 
ions and  passions  of  mankind  are  under  its  control.  The 
mere  contests  of  the  sword  are  temporary ;  their  wounds 
are  but  in  the  flesh,  and  it  is  the  pride  of  the  generous  to 
forgive  and  forget  them  ;  but  the  slanders  of  the  pen 
pierce  to  the  heart;  they  rankle  longest  in  the  noblest 
spirits  ;  they  dwell  ever  present  in  the  mind,  and  render 
it  morbidly  sensitive  to  the  most  trifling  collision.  It  is 
but  seldom  that  any  one  overt  act  produces  hostilities 
between  two  nations ;  there  exists,  most  commonly,  a 
previous  jealousy  and  ill-will;  a  predisposition  to  take 
offence.  Trace  these  to  their  cause,  and  how  often  will 
they  be  found  to  originate  in  the  mischievous  effusions  of 
mercenary  writers  ;  who,  secure  in  their  closets,  and  for 
ignominious  bread,  concoct  and  circulate  the  venom  that 
is  to  inflame  the  generous  and  the  brave. 

I  am  not  laying  too  much  stress  upon  this  point ;  for  it 
applies  most  emphatically  to  our  particular  case.  Over 
no  nation  does  the  press  hold  a  more  absolute  control 
than  over  the  people  of  America  ;  for  the  universal  edu- 


84  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

cation  of  the  poorest  classes  makes  every  individual  a 
reader.  There  is  nothing  published  in  England  on  the 
subject  of  our  country  that  does  not  circulate  through 
every  part  of  it.  There  is  not  a  calumny  dropped  from 
English  pen,  nor  an  unworthy  sarcasm  uttered  by  an 
English  statesman,  that  does  not  go  to  blight  good-will, 
and  add  to  the  mass  of  latent  resentment.  Possessing, 
then,  as  England  does,  the  fountain-head  whence  the  lit- 
erature of  the  language  flows,  how  completely  is  it  in  her 
power,  and  how  truly  is  it  her  duty,  to  make  it  the 
medium  of  amiable  and  magnanimous  feeling — a  stream 
where  the  two  nations  might  meet  together,  and  drink  in 
peace  and  kindness.  Should  she,  however,  persist  in 
turning  it  to  waters  of  bitterness,  the  time  may  come 
when  she  may  repent  her  folly.  The  present  friendship 
of  America  may  be  of  but  little  moment  to  her ;  but  the 
future  destinies  of  that  country  do  not  admit  of  a  doubt; 
over  those  of  England  there  lower  some  shadows  of  un- 
certainty. Should,  then,  a  day  of  gloom  arrive ;  should 
these  reverses  overtake  her,  from  which  the  proudest  em- 
pires have  not  been  exempt ;  she  may  look  back  with  re- 
gret at  her  infatuation,  in  repulsing  from  her  side  a  na- 
tion she  might  have  grappled  to  her  bosom,  and  thus 
destroying  her  only  chance  for  real  friendship  beyond 
the  boundaries  of  her  own  dominions. 

There  is  a  general  impression  in  England,  that  the  peo- 
ple of  the  United  States  are  inimical  to  the  parent  coun- 
try.    It  is  one  of  the  errors  which  have  been  diligently 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.  86 

propagated  by  designing  writers.  There  is,  doubtless, 
considerable  political  hostility,  and  a  general  soreness 
at  the  illiberality  of  the  English  press ;  but,  generally 
speaking,  the  prepossessions  of  the  people  are  strongly 
in  favor  of  England.  Indeed,  at  one  time,  they  amounted, 
in  many  parts  of  the  Union,  to  an  absurd  degree  of  big- 
otry. The  bare  name  of  Englishman  was  a  passport  to 
the  confidence  and  hospitality  of  every  family,  and  too 
often  gave  a  transient  currency  to  the  worthless  and  the 
ungrateful.  Throughout  the  country  there  was  some- 
thing of  enthusiasm  connected  with  the  idea  of  England. 
We  looked  to  it  with  a  hallowed  feeling  of  tenderness 
and  veneration,  as  the  land  of  our  forefathers — the  au- 
gust repository  of  the  monuments  and  antiquities  of  our 
race — the  birthplace  and  mausoleum  of  the  sages  and 
heroes  of  our  paternal  history.  After  our  own  country, 
there  was  none  in  whose  glory  we  more  delighted — none 
whose  good  opinion  we  were  more  anxious  to  possess — 
none  towards  which  our  hearts  yearned  with  such  throb- 
bings  of  warm  consanguinity.  Even  during  the  late  war, 
whenever  there  was  the  least  opportunity  for  kind  feel- 
ings to  spring  forth,  it  was  the  delight  of  the  generous 
spirits  of  our  country  to  show  that,  in  the  midst  of  hostil- 
ities, they  still  kept  alive  the  sparks  of  future  friendship. 
Is  all  this  to  be  at  an  end?  Is  this  golden  band  of 
kindred  sympathies,  so  rare  between  nations,  to  be 
broken  for  ever? — Perhaps  it  is  for  the  best — it  may 
dispel  an  illusion  which  might  have  kept  us  in  mental 


86  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

vassalage ;  which  might  have  interfered  occasionally 
with  our  true  interests,  and  prevented  the  growth  of 
proper  national  pride.  But  it  is  hard  to  give  up  the 
kindred  tie !  and  there  are  feelings  dearer  than  interest 
— closer  to  the  heart  than  pride — that  will  still  make  us 
cast  back  a  look  of  regret,  as  we  wander  farther  and  far- 
ther from  the  paternal  roof,  and  lament  the  waywardness 
of  the  parent  that  would  repel  the  affections  of  the  child. 
Short-sighted  and  injudicious,  however,  as  the  conduct 
of  England  may  be  in  this  system  of  aspersion,  recrimi- 
nation on  our  part  would  be  equally  ill-judged.  I  speak 
not  of  a  prompt  and  spirited  vindication  of  our  country, 
nor  the  keenest  castigation  of  her  slanderers — ^but  I  al- 
lude to  a  disposition  to  retaliate  in  kind ;  to  retort  sar- 
casm, and  inspire  prejudice ;  which  seems  to  be  spread- 
ing widely  among  our  writers.  Let  us  guard  particularly 
against  such  a  temper,  for  it  would  double  the  evil  in- 
stead of  redressing  the  wrong.  Nothing  is  so  easy  and 
inviting  as  the  retort  of  abuse  and  sarcasm ;  but  it  is  a 
paltry  and  an  unprofitable  contest.  It  is  the  alternative 
of  a  morbid  mind,  fretted  into  petulance,  rather  than 
warmed  into  indignation.  If  England  is  willing  to  per- 
mit the  mean  jealousies  of  trade,  or  the  rancorous  ani- 
mosities of  politics,  to  deprave  the  integrity  of  her  press, 
and  poison  the  fountain  of  public  opinion,  let  us  beware 
of  her  example.  She  may  deem  it  her  interest  to  diffuse 
error,  and  engender  antipathy,  for  the  purpose  of  check- 
ing emigration ;  we  have  no  purpose  of  the  kind  to  serve. 


AMERICAN  ANSWERS.  87 

Neither  have  we  any  spirit  of  national  jealousy  to  gratify, 
for  as  yet,  in  all  our  rivalships  with  England,  we  are  the 
rising  and  the  gaining  party.  There  can  be  no  end  to 
answer,  therefore,  but  the  gratification  of  resentment — a 
mere  spirit  of  retaliation;  and  even  that  is  impotent. 
Our  retorts  are  never  republished  in  England ;  they  fall 
short,  therefore,  of  their  aim ;  but  they  foster  a  querulous 
and  peevish  temper  among  our  writers;  they  sour  the 
sweet  flow  of  our  early  literature,  and  sow  thorns  and 
brambles  among  its  blossoms.  What  is  still  worse,  they 
circulate  through  our  own  country,  and,  as  far  as  they 
have  effect,  excite  virulent  national  prejudices.  This  last 
is  the  evil  most  especially  to  be  deprecated.  Governed, 
as  we  are,  entirely  by  public  opinion,  the  utmost  care 
should  be  taken  to  preserve  the  purity  of  the  public 
mind.  Knowledge  is  power,  and  truth  is  knowledge; 
whoever,  therefore,  knowingly  propagates  a  prejudice, 
wilfully  saps  the  foundation  of  his  country's  strength. 

The  members  of  a  republic,  above  all  other  men, 
should  be  candid  and  dispassionate.  They  are,  individ- 
ually, portions  of  the  sovereign  mind  and  sovereign  will, 
and  should  be  enabled  to  come  to  all  questions  of  na- 
tional concern  with  calm  and  unbiased  judgments.  From 
the  peculiar  nature  of  our  relations  with  England,  we 
must  have  more  frequent  questions  of  a  difficult  and  del- 
icate character  with  her  than  with  any  other  nation; 
questions  that  affect  the  most  acute  and  excitable  feel- 
ings ;  and  as,  in  the  adjusting  of  these,  our  national  meas- 


88  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ures  must  ultimately  be  determined  by  popular  senti- 
ment, we  cannot  be  too  anxiously  attentive  to  purify  it 
from  all  latent  passion  or  prepossession. 

Opening,  too,  as  we  do,  an  asylum  for  strangers  from 
every  portion  of  the  earth,  we  should  receive  all  with  im- 
partiality. It  should  be  our  pride  to  exhibit  an  example 
of  one  nation,  at  least,  destitute  of  national  antipathies, 
and  exercising  not  merely  the  overt  acts  of  hospitality, 
but  those  more  rare  and  noble  courtesies  which  spring 
from  liberality  of  opinion. 

What  have  we  to  do  with  national  prejudices  ?  They 
are  the  inveterate  diseases  of  old  countries,  contracted  in 
rude  and  ignorant  ages,  when  nations  knew  but  little 
of  each  other,  and  looked  beyond  their  own  boundaries 
with  distrust  and  hostility.  We,  on  the  contrary,  have 
sprung  into  national  existence  in  an  enlightened  and 
philosophic  age,  when  the  different  parts  of  the  habitable 
world,  and  the  various  branches  of  the  human  family, 
have  been  indefatigably  studied  and  made  known  to  each 
other ;  and  we  forego  the  advantages  of  our  birth,  if  we 
do  not  shake  off  the  national  prejudices,  as  we  would  the 
local  superstitions  of  the  old  world. 

But  above  all  let  us  not  be  influenced  by  any  angry 
feelings,  so  far  as  to  shut  our  eyes  to  the  perception  of 
what  is  really  excellent  and  amiable  in  the  English  char- 
acter. We  are  a  young  people,  necessarily  an  imitative 
one,  and  must  take  our  examples  and  models,  in  a  great 
degree,  from  the  existing  nations  of  Europe.     There  is  no 


BUTT  OF  AMEBIC  AN   WRITERS.  89 

country  more  worthy  of  our  study  than  England.  The 
spirit  of  her  constitution  is  most  analogous  to  ours.  The 
manners  of  her  people — their  i.i  telle ctual  activity — their 
freedom  of  opinion — their  habits  of  thinking  on  those 
subjects  which  concern  the  dearest  interests  and  most 
sacred  charities  of  private  life,  are  all  congenial  to  the 
American  character;  and,  in  fact,  are  all  intrinsically 
excellent ;  for  it  is  in  the  moral  feeling  of  the  people  that 
the  deep  foundations  of  British  prosperity  are  laid ;  and 
however  the  superstructure  may  be  time-worn,  or  over- 
run by  abuses,  there  must  be  something  solid  in  the 
basis,  admirable  in  the  materials,  and  stable  in  the  struc- 
ture of  an  edifice,  that  so  long  has  towered  unshaken 
amidst  the  tempests  of  the  world. 

Let  it  be  the  pride  of  our  writers,  therefore,  discarding 
all  feelings  of  irritation,  and  disdaining  to  retaliate  the 
illiberality  of  British  authors,  to  speak  of  the  English 
nation  without  prejudice,  and  with  determined  candor. 
While  they  rebuke  the  indiscriminating  bigotry  with 
which  some  of  our  countrymen  admire  and  imitate  every 
thing  English,  merely  because  it  is  English,  let  them 
frankly  point  out  what  is  really  worthy  of  approbation. 
We  may  thus  place  England  before  us  as  a  perpetual  vol- 
ume of  reference,  wherein  are  recorded  sound  deductions 
from  ages  of  experience ;  and  while  we  avoid  the  errors  and 
absurdities  which  may  have  crept  into  the  page,  we  may 
draw  thence  golden  maxims  of  practical  wisdom,  where- 
with to  strengthen  and  to  embellish  our  national  character. 


RUKAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND. 

Oh  !  friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man, 
Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace, 
Dooaiestie  life  in  rural  pleasures  past ! 

COWPER. 

|HE  stranger  who  would  form  a  correct  opinion 
of  the  English  character  must  not  confine  his 
observations  to  the  metropolis.  He  must  go 
forth  into  the  country ;  he  must  sojourn  in  villages  and 
hamlets ;  he  must  visit  castles,  villas,  farm-houses,  cot- 
tages ;  he  must  wander  through  parks  and  gardens ;  along 
hedges  and  green  lanes;  he  must  loiter  about  country 
churches ;  attend  wakes  and  fairs,  and  other  rural  festi- 
vals ;  and  cope  with  the  people  in  all  their  conditions, 
and  all  their  habits  and  humors. 

In  some  countries  the  large  cities  absorb  the  wealth 
and  fashion  of  the  nation  ;  they  are  the  only  fixed  abodes 
of  elegant  and  intelligent  society,  and  the  country  is  in- 
habited almost  entirely  by  boorish  peasantry.  In  Eng- 
land, on  the  contrary,  the  metropolis  is  a  mere  gathering- 
place,  or  general  rendezvous,  of  the  polite  classes,  where 

they  devote  a  small  portion  of  the  year  to  a  hurry  of 

90 


BUBAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND.  91 

gayety  and  dissipation,  and,  having  indulged  this  kind  of 
carnival,  return  again  to  the  apparently  more  congenial 
habits  of  rural  life.  The  various  orders  of  society  are 
therefore  diffused  over  the  whole  surface  of  the  kingdom, 
and  the  most  retired  neighborhoods  afford  specimens  of 
the  different  ranks. 

The  English,  in  fact,  are  strongly  gifted  with  the  rural 
feeling.  They  possess  a  quick  sensibility  to  the  beau- 
ties of  nature,  and  a  keen  relish  for  the  pleasures  and 
employments  of  the  country.  This  passion  seems  inher- 
ent in  them.  Even  the  inhabitants  of  cities,  born  and 
brought  up  among  brick  walls  and  bustling  streets,  enter 
with  facility  into  rural  habits,  and  evince  a  tact  for  rural 
occupation.  The  merchant  has  his  snug  retreat  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  metropolis,  where  he  often  displays  as 
much  pride  and  zeal  in  the  cultivation  of  his  flower-gar- 
den, and  the  maturing  of  his  fruits,  as  he  does  in  the  con- 
duct of  his  business,  and  the  success  of  a  commercial 
enterprise.  Even  those  less  fortunate  individuals,  who 
are  doomed  to  pass  their  lives  in  the  midst  of  din  and 
traffic,  contrive  to  have  something  that  shall  remind  them 
of  the  green  aspect  of  nature.  In  the  most  dark  and  din- 
gy quarters  of  the  city,  the  drawing-room  window  resem- 
bles frequently  a  bank  of  flowers ;  every  spot  capable  of 
vegetation  has  its  grass-plot  and  flower-bed ;  and  every 
square  its  mimic  park,  laid  out  with  picturesque  taste, 
and  gleaming  with  refreshing  verdure. 

Those  who  see  the  Englishman  only  in  town  are  apt  to 


92  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK 

form  an  unfavorable  opinion  of  his  social  character.  He 
is  either  absorbed  in  business,  or  distracted  by  the  thou- 
sand engagements  that  dissipate  time,  thought,  and  feel- 
ing, in  this  huge  metropolis.  He  has,  therefore,  too  com- 
monly a  look  of  hurry  and  abstraction.  Wherever  he 
happens  to  be,  he  is  on  the  point  of  going  somewhere 
else;  at  the  moment  he  is  talking  on  one  subject,  his 
mind  is  wandering  to  another ;  and  while  paying  a  friend- 
ly visit,  he  is  calculating  how  he  shall  economize  time  so 
as  to  pay  the  other  visits  allotted  in  the  morning.  An 
immense  metropolis,  like  London,  is  calculated  to  make 
men  selfish  and  uninteresting.  In  their  casual  and  tran- 
sient meetings,  they  can  but  deal  briefly  in  common- 
places. They  present  but  the  cold  superficies  of  charac- 
ter— its  rich  and  genial  qualities  have  no  time  to  be 
warmed  into  a  flow. 

It  is  in  the  country  that  the  Englishman  gives  scope  to 
his  natural  feelings.  He  breaks  loose  gladly  from  the 
cold  formalities  and  negative  civilities  of  town;  throws 
off  his  habits  of  shy  reserve,  and  becomes  joyous  and 
free-hearted.  He  manages  to  collect  round  him  all  the 
conveniences  and  elegancies  of  polite  life,  and  to  banish 
its  restraints.  His  country-seat  abounds  with  every  re- 
quisite, either  for  studious  retirement,  tasteful  gratifica- 
tion, or  rural  exercise.  Books,  paintings,  music,  horses, 
dogs,  and  sporting  implements  of  all  kinds,  are  at  hand. 
He  puts  no  constraint  either  upon  his  guests  or  himself, 
but  in  the  true  spirit  of  hospitality  provides  the  means  of 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND,  93 

enjoyment,  and  leaves  every  one  to  partake  according  to 
his  inclination. 

The  taste  of  the  English  in  the  cultivation  of  land,  and 
in  what  is  called  landscape  gardening,  is  unrivalled. 
They  have  studied  nature  intently,  and  discover  an  ex- 
quisite sense  of  her  beautiful  forms  and  harmonious  com- 
binations. Those  charms,  which  in  other  countries  she 
lavishes  in  wild  solitudes,  are  here  assembled  round  the 
haunts  of  domestic  life.  They  seem  to  have  caught  her 
coy  and  furtive  graces,  and  spread  them,  like  witchery, 
about  their  rural  abodes. 

Nothing  can  be  more  imposing  than  the  magnificence 
of  English  park  scenery.  Vast  lawns  that  extend  like 
sheets  of  vivid  green,  with  here  and  there  clumps  of 
gigantic  trees,  heaping  up  rich  piles  of  foliage:  the 
solemn  pomp  of  groves  and  woodland  glades,  with  the 
deer  trooping  in  silent  herds  across  them;  the  hare, 
bounding  away  to  the  covert ;  or  the  pheasant,  suddenly 
bursting  upon  the  wing:  the  brook,  taught  to  wind  in 
natural  meanderings  or  expand  into  a  glassy  lake:  the 
sequestered  pool,  reflecting  the  quivering  trees,  with  the 
yellow  leaf  sleeping  on  its  bosom,  and  the  trout  roaming 
fearlessly  about  its  limpid  waters;  while  some  rustic 
temple  or  sylvan  statue,  grown  green  and  dank  with  age, 
gives  an  air  of  classic  sanctity  to  the  seclusion. 

These  are  but  a  few  of  the  features  of  park  scenery ; 
but  what  most  delights  me,  is  the  creative  talent  with 
which  the  English  decorate  the  unostentatious  abodes  of 


94  THE  SKETCHBOOK. 

middle  life.  The  rudest  habitation,  the  most  unpromis- 
ing and  scanty  portion  of  land,  in  the  hands  of  an  Eng- 
lishman of  taste,  becomes  a  little  paradise.  With  a  nicely 
discriminating  eye,  he  seizes  at  once  upon  its  capabili- 
ties, and  pictures  in  his  mind  the  future  landscape.  The 
sterile  spot  grows  into  loveliness  under  his  hand ;  and  yet 
the  operations  of  art  which  produce  the  effect  are  scarcely 
to  be  perceived.  The  cherishing  and  training  of  some 
trees ;  the  cautious  pruning  of  others ;  the  nice  distribu- 
tion of  flowers  and  plants  of  tender  and  graceful  foliage  ; 
the  introduction  of  a  green  slope  of  velvet  turf ;  the  par- 
tial opening  to  a  peep  of  blue  distance,  or  silver  gleam  of 
water  :  all  these  are  managed  with  a  delicate  tact,  a  per- 
vading yet  quiet  assiduity,  like  the  magic  touchings  with 
which  a  painter  finishes  up  a  favorite  picture. 

The  residence  of  people  of  fortune  and  refinement  in 
the  country  has  diffused  a  degree  of  taste  and  elegance  in 
rural  economy,  that  descends  to  the  lowest  class.  The 
very  laborer,  with  his  thatched  cottage  and  narrow  slip  of 
ground,  attends  to  their  embellishment.  The  trim  hedge, 
the  grassplot  before  the  door,  the  little  flower-bed  bor- 
dered with  snug  box,  the  woodbine  trained  up  against 
the  wall,  and  hanging  its  blossoms  about  the  lattice,  the 
pot  of  flowers  in  the  window,  the  holly,  providently 
planted  about  the  house,  to  cheat  winter  of  its  dreariness, 
and  to  throw  in  a  semblance  of  green  summer  to  cheer 
the  fireside  :  all  these  bespeak  the  influence  of  taste,  flow- 
ing down  from  high  sources,  and  pervading  the  lowest 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND.  95 

levels  of  the  public  mind.  If  ever  Love,  as  poets  sing, 
delights  to  visit  a  cottage,  it  must  be  the  cottage  of  an 
English  peasant. 

The  fondness  for  rural  life  among  the  higher  classes  of 
the  English  has  had  a  great  and  salutary  effect  upon  the 
national  character.  I  do  not  know  a  finer  race  of  men 
than  the  English  gentlemen.  Instead  of  the  softness  and 
effeminacy  which  characterize  the  men  of  rank  in  most 
countries,  they  exhibit  a  union  of  elegance  and  strength, 
a  robustness  of  frame  and  freshness  of  complexion,  which 
I  am  inclined  to  attribute  to  their  living  so  much  in  the 
open  air,  and  pursuing  so  eagerly  the  invigorating  recre- 
ations of  the  country.  These  hardy  exercises  produce 
also  a  healthful  tone  of  mind  and  spirits,  and  a  manliness 
and  simplicity  of  manners,  which  even  the  follies  and  dis- 
sipations of  the  town  cannot  easily  pervert,  and  can 
never  entirely  destroy.  In  the  country,  too,  the  different 
orders  of  society  seem  to  approach  more  freely,  to  be 
more  disposed  to  blend  and  operate  favorably  upon  each 
other.  The  distinctions  between  them  do  not  appear  to 
be  so  marked  and  impassable  as  in  the  cities.  The 
manner  in  which  property  has  been  distributed  into  small 
estates  and  farms  has  established  a  regular  gradation 
from  the  nobleman,  through  the  classes  of  gentry,  small 
landed  proprietors,  and  substantial  farmers,  down  to  the 
laboring  peasantry ;  and  while  it  has  thus  banded  the  ex- 
tremes of  society  together,  has  infused  into  each  inter- 
mediate rank  a  spirit  of  independence.     This,  it  must  be 


96  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

confessed,  is  not  so  uniyersally  the  case  at  present  as  it 
was  formerly ;  the  larger  estates  having,  in  late  years  of 
distress,  absorbed  the  smaller,  and,  in  some  parts  of  the 
country,  almost  annihilated  the  sturdy  race  of  small 
farmers.  These,  however,  I  believe,  are  but  casual  breaks 
in  the  general  system  I  have  mentioned. 

In  rural  occupation  there  is  nothing  mean  and  debas- 
ing. It  leads  a  man  forth  among  scenes  of  natural  gran- 
deur and  beauty ;  it  leaves  him  to  the  workings  of  his 
own  mind,  operated  upon  by  the  purest  and  most  elevat- 
ing of  external  influences.  Such  a  man  may  be  simple 
and  rough,  but  he  cannot  be  vulgar.  The  man  of  refine- 
ment, therefore,  finds  nothing  revolting  in  an  intercourse 
with  the  lower  orders  in  rural  life,  as  he  does  when  he 
casually  mingles  with  the  lower  orders  of  cities.  He  lays 
aside  his  distance  and  reserve,  and  is  glad  to  waive  the 
distinctions  of  rank,  and  to  enter  into  the  honest,  heart- 
felt enjoyments  of  common  life.  Indeed  the  very  amuse- 
ments of  the  country  bring  men  more  and  more  together ; 
and  the  sound  of  hound  and  horn  blend  all  feelings  into 
harmony.  I  believe  this  is  one  great  reason  why  the  no- 
bility and  gentry  are  more  popular  among  the  inferior 
orders  in  England  than  they  are  in  any  other  country ; 
and  why  the  latter  have  endured  so  many  excessive 
pressures  and  extremities,  without  repining  more  gener- 
ally at  the  unequal  distribution  of  fortune  and  privilege. 

To  this  mingling  of  cultivated  and  rustic  society  may 
also  be  attributed  the  rural  feeling  that  runs  through 


BUBAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND.  97 

British  literature  ;  the  frequent  use  of  illustrations  from 
rural  life  ;  those  incomparable  descriptions  of  nature  that 
abound  in  the  British  poets,  that  have  continued  down 
from  "the  Flower  and  the  Leaf"  of  Chaucer,  and  have 
brought  into  our  closets  all  the  freshness  and  fragrance 
of  the  dewy  landscape.  The  pastoral  writers  of  other 
countries  appear  as  if  they  had  paid  nature  an  occasional 
visit,  and  become  acquainted  with  her  general  charms  \ 
but  the  British  poets  have  lived  and  revelled  with  her 
— they  have  wooed  her  in  her  most  secret  haunts — they 
have  watched  her  minutest  caprices.  A  spray  could  not 
tremble  in  the  breeze — a  leaf  could  not  rustle  to  the 
ground — a  diamond  drop  could  not  patter  in  the  stream 
— a  fragrance  could  not  exhale  from  the  humble  violet, 
nor  a  daisy  unfold  its  crimson  tints  to  the  morning,  but 
it  has  been  noticed  by  these  impassioned  and  delicate 
observers,  and  wrought  up  into  some  beautiful  morality. 

The  effect  of  this  devotion  of  elegant  minds  to  rural 
occupations  has  been  wonderful  on  the  face  of  the  coun- 
try. A  great  part  of  the  island  is  rather  level,  and 
would  be  monotonous,  were  it  not  for  the  charms  of  cul- 
ture :  but  it  is  studded  and  gemmed,  as  it  were,  with 
castles  and  palaces,  and  embroidered  with  parks  and  gar- 
dens. It  does  not  abound  in  grand  and  sublime  pros- 
pects, but  rather  in  little  home  scenes  of  rural  repose 
and  sheltered  quiet.  Every  antique  farm-house  and 
moss-grown  cottage  is  a  picture  :  and  as  the  roads  are 
continually  winding,  and  the  view  is  shut  in  by  groves 
7 


98  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  hedges,  the  eye  is  delighted  by  a  continual  succes- 
sion of  small  landscapes  of  captivating  loveliness. 

The  great  charm,  however,  of  English  scenery  is  the 
moral  feeling  that  seems  to  pervade  it.  It  is  associated 
in  the  mind  with  ideas  of  order,  of  quiet,  of  sober  well- 
established  principles,  of  hoary  usage  and  reverend  cus- 
tom. Every  thing  seems  to  be  the  growth  of  ages  of 
regular  and  peaceful  existence.  The  old  church  of  re- 
mote architecture,  with  its  low  massive  portal ;  its  gothic 
tower ;  its  windows  rich  with  tracery  and  painted  glass, 
in  scrupulous  preservation;  its  stately  monuments  of 
warriors  and  worthies  of  the  olden  time,  ancestors  of 
the  present  lords  of  the  soil;  its  tombstones,  recording 
successive  generations  of  sturdy  yeomanry,  whose  pro- 
geny still  plough  the  same  fields,  and  kneel  at  the  same 
altar — the  parsonage,  a  quaint  irregular  pile,  partly  anti- 
quated, but  repaired  and  altered  in  the  tastes  of  various 
ages  and  occupants — the  stile  and  footpath  leading  from 
the  churchyard,  across  pleasant  fields,  and  along  shady 
hedge-rows,  according  to  an  immemorial  right  of  way — 
the  neighboring  village,  with  its  venerable  cottages,  its 
public  green  sheltered  by  trees,  under  which  the  fore- 
fathers of  the  present  race  have  sported — the  antique 
family  mansion,  standing  apart  in  some  little  rural  do- 
main, but  looking  down  with  a  protecting  air  on  the  sur- 
rounding scene  :  all  these  common  features  of  English 
landscape  evince  a  calm  and  settled  security,  and  heredi- 
tary transmission  of  homebred  virtues  and  local  attach- 


RUMAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND.  99 

ments,  that  speak  deeply  and  touchingly  for  the  moral 
character  of  the  nation. 

It  is  a  pleasing  sight  of  a  Sunday  morning,  when  the 
bell  is  sending  its  sober  melody  across  the  quiet  fields, 
to  behold  the  peasantry  in  their  best  finery,  with  rud- 
dy faces  and  modest  cheerfulness,  thronging  tranquilly 
along  the  green  lanes  to  church ;  but  it  is  still  more 
pleasing  to  see  them  in  the  evenings,  gathering  about 
their  cottage  doors,  and  appearing  to  exult  in  the  hum- 
ble comforts  and  embellishments  which  their  own  hands 
have  spread  around  them. 

It  is  this  sweet  home-feeling,  this  settled  repose  of 
affection  in  the  domestic  scene,  that  is,  after  all,  the 
parent  of  the  steadiest  virtues  and  purest  enjoyments; 
and  I  cannot  close  these  desultory  remarks  better,  than 
by  quoting  the  words  of  a  modern  English  poet,  who  has 
depicted  it  with  remarkable  felicity : 

Through  each  gradation,  from  the  castled  hall, 
The  city  dome,  the  villa  crown'd  with  shade, 
But  chief  from  modest  mansions  numberless, 
In  town  or  hamlet,  shelt'ring  middle  life, 
Down  to  the  cottaged  vale,  and  straw-roof'd  shed  ; 
This  western  isle  hath  long  been  famed  for  scenes 
Where  bliss  domestic  finds  a  dwelling-place  ; 
Domestic  bliss,  that,  like  a  harmless  dove, 
(Honor  and  sweet  endearment  keeping  guard,) 
Can  centre  in  a  little  quiet  nest 
All  that  desire  would  fly  for  through  the  earth  : 
That  can,  the  world  eluding,  oe  itself 


100  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

A  world  enjoy'd  ;  that  wants  no  witnesses 
But  its  own  sharers,  and  approving  heaven  ; 
That,  like  a  flower  deep  hid  in  rocky  cleft, 
Smiles,  though  'tis  looking  only  at  the  sky.* 

*  From  a  Poem  on  the  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte,  by  the  Rerer 
end  Rann  Kennedy,  A.M. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 

I  never  heard 
Of  any  true  affection,  but  'twas  nipt 
"With  care,  that,  like  the  caterpillar,  eats 
The  leaves  of  the  spring's  sweetest  book,  the  rose. 

MiDDLETON. 

T  is  a  common  practice  with  those  who  have 
outlived  the  susceptibility  of  early  feeling,  or 
have  been  brought  up  in  the  gay  heartlessness 
cf  dissipated  life,  to  laugh  at  all  love  stories,  and  to  treat 
the  tales  of  romantic  passion  as  mere  fictions  of  novelists 
and  poets.  My  observations  on  human  nature  have  in- 
duced me  to  think  otherwise.  They  have  convinced  me, 
that  however  the  surface  of  the  character  may  be  chilled 
and  frozen  by  the  cares  of  the  world,  or  cultivated  into 
mere  smiles  by  the  arts  of  society,  still  there  are  dormant 
fires  lurking  in  the  depths  of  the  coldest  bosom,  which, 
when  once  enkindled,  become  impetuous,  and  are  some- 
times desolating  in  their  effects.  Indeed,  I  am  a  true 
believer  in  the  blind  deity,  and  go  to  the  full  extent  of 
his  doctrines.  Shall  I  confess  it? — I  believe  in  broken 
hearts,  and  the  possibility  of  dying  of  disappointed  love. 
I  do  not,  however,  consider  it  a  malady  often  fatal  to  my 

101 


102  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

own  sex  ;  but  I  firmly  believe  that  it  withers  down  many 
a  lovely  woman  into  an  early  grave. 

Man  is  the  creature  of  interest  and  ambition.  His 
nature  leads  him  forth  into  the  struggle  and  bustle  of  the 
world.  Love  is  but  the  embellishment  of  his  early  life, 
or  a  song  piped  in  the  intervals  of  the  acts.  He  seeks  for 
fame,  for  fortune,  for  space  in  the  world's  thought,  and 
dominion  over  his  fellow-men.  But  a  woman's  whole  life 
is  a  history  of  the  affections.  The  heart  is  her  world :  it 
is  there  her  ambition  strives  for  empire ;  it  is  there  her 
avarice  seeks  for  hidden  treasures.  She  sends  forth  her 
sympathies  on  adventure  ;  she  embarks  her  whole  soul  in 
the  traffic  of  affection ;  and  if  shipwrecked,  her  case  is 
hopeless — for  it  is  a  bankruptcy  of  the  heart. 

To  a  man  the  disappointment  of  love  may  occasion 
some  bitter  pangs  :  it  wounds  some  feelings  of  tenderness 
— it  blasts  some  prospects  of  felicity  ;  but  he  is  an  active 
being — he  may  dissipate  his  thoughts  in  the  whirl  of 
varied  occupation,  or  may  plunge  into  the  tide  of  pleas- 
ure ;  or,  if  the  scene  of  disappointment  be  too  full  of 
painful  associations,  he  can  shift  his  abode  at  will,  and 
taking  as  it  were  the  wings  of  the  morning,  can  "  fly  to 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  and  be  at  rest." 

But  woman's  is  comparatively  a  fixed,  a,  secluded,  and 
meditative  life.  She  is  more  the  companion  of  her  own 
thoughts  and  feelings  ;  and  if  they  are  turned  to  minis- 
ters of  sorrow,  where  shall  she  look  for  consolation? 
Her  lot  is  to  be  wooed  and  won ;  and  if  unhappy  in  her 


THE  BROKEN  HEART.  103 

love,  her  heart  is  like  some  fortress  that  has  been  cap- 
tured, and  sacked,  and  abandoned,  and  left  desolate. 

How  many  bright  eyes  grow  dim — how  many  soft 
cheeks  grow  pale — how  many  lovely  forms  fade  away  into 
the  tomb,  and  none  can  tell  the  cause  that  blighted  their 
loveliness  !  As  the  dove  will  clasp  its  wings  to  its  side, 
and  cover  and  conceal  the  arrow  that  is  preying  on  its 
vitals,  so  is  it  the  nature  of  woman  to  hide  from  the 
world  the  pangs  of  wounded  affection.  The  love  of  a 
delicate  female  is  always  shy  and  silent.  Even  when  for- 
tunate, she  scarcely  breathes  it  to  herself;  but  when 
otherwise,  she  buries  it  in  the  recesses  of  her  bosom, 
and  there  lets  it  cower  and  brood  among  the  ruins  of  her 
peace.  With  her  the  desire  of  the  heart  has  failed.  The 
great  charm  of  existence  is  at  an  end.  She  neglects  all 
the  cheerful  exercises  which  gladden  the  spirits,  quicken 
the  pulses,  and  send  the  tide  of  life  in  healthful  currents 
through  the  veins.  Her  rest  is  broken — the  sweet  re- 
freshment of  sleep  is  poisoned  by  melancholy  dreams — 
"  dry  sorrow  drinks  her  blood,"  until  her  enfeebled  frame 
sinks  under  the  slightest  external  injury.  Look  for  her, 
after  a  little  while,  and  you  find  friendship  weeping  over 
her  untimely  grave,  and  wondering  that  one,  who  but 
lately  glowed  with  all  the  radiance  of  health  and  beauty, 
should  so  speedily  be  brought  down  to  "  darkness  and 
the  worm."  You  will  be  told  of  some  wintry  chill,  some 
casual  indisposition,  that  laid  her  low ; — but  no  one 
knows  of  the  mental  malady  which  previously  sapped 


104  THE  8KETCE-B00K. 

her  strength,   and  made  her    so    easy  a  prey  to    the 
spoiler. 

She  is  like  some  tender  tree,  the  pride  and  beauty  of 
the  grove ;  graceful  in  its  form,  bright  in  its  foliage,  but 
with  the  worm  preying  at  its  heart.  We  find  it  suddenly 
withering,  when  it  should  be  most  fresh  and  luxuriant.  ^ 
We  see  it  drooping  its  branches  to  the  earth,  and  shed- 
ding leaf  by  leaf,  until,  wasted  and  perished  away,  it  falls 
even  in  the  stillness  of  the  forest ;  and  as  we  muse  over 
the  beautiful  ruin,  we  strive  in  vain  to  recollect  the  blast 
or  thunderbolt  that  could  have  smitten  it  with  decay. 

I  have  seen  many  instances  of  women  running  to  waste 
and  self-neglect,  and  disappearing  gradually  from  the 
earth,  almost  as  if  they  had  been  exhaled  to  heaven ;  and 
have  repeatedly  fancied  that  I  could  trace  their  death 
through  the  various  declensions  of  consumption,  cold, 
debility,  languor,  melancholy,  until  I  reached  the  first 
symptom  of  disappointed  love.  But  an  instance  of  the 
kind  was  lately  told  to  me ;  the  circumstances  are  well 
known  in  the  country  where  they  happened,  and  I  shall 
but  give  them  in  the  manner  in  which  they  were  related. 

Every  one  must  recollect  the  tragical  story  of  young 

E ,  the  Irish  patriot ;  it  was  too  touching  to  be  soon 

forgotten.     During  the  troubles  in  Ireland,  he  was  tried, 
condemned,  and  executed,  on  a  charge  of  treason.     His 
fate  made  a  deep  impression  on  public  sympathy.     He 
was  so  young — so  intelligent — so  generous — so  brave — so  , 
every  thing  that  we  are  apt  to  like  in  a  young  man.    His 


THE  BROKEN  HEART.  106 

conduct  under  trial,  too,  was  so  lofty  and  intrepid.  The 
noble  indignation  with  which  he  repelled  the  charge  of 
treason  against  his  country  —  the  eloquent  vindication 
of  his  name — and  his  pathetic  appeal  to  posterity,  in 
the  hopeless  hour  of  condemnation — all  these  entered 
deeply  into  every  generous  bosom,  and  even  his  enemies 
lamented  the  stern  policy  that  dictated  his  execution. 

But  there  was  one  heart,  whose  anguish  it  would  be 
impossible  to  describe.  In  happier  days  and  fairer  for- 
tunes, he  had  won  the  affections  of  a  beautiful  and  inter- 
esting girl,  the  daughter  of  a  late  celebrated  Irish  bar- 
rister. She  loved  him  with  the  disinterested  fervor  of  a 
woman's  first  and  early  love.  When  every  worldly  maxim 
arrayed  itself  against  him  ;  when  blasted  in  fortune,  and 
disgrace  and  danger  darkened  around  his  name,  she  loved 
him  the  more  ardently  for  his  very  sufferings.  If,  then, 
his  fate  could  awaken  the  sympathy  even  of  his  foes,  what 
must  have  been  the  agony  of  her,  whose  whole  soul  was 
occupied  by  his  image  !  Let  those  tell  who  have  had  the 
portals  of  the  tomb  suddenly  closed  between  them  and 
the^  being  they  most  loved  on  earth — who  have  sat  at  its 
threshold,  as  one  shut  out  in  a  cold  and  lonely  world, 
whence  all  that  was  most  lovely  and  loving  had  departed. 

But  then  the  horrors  of  such  a  grave !  «o  frightful,  so 
dishonored !  there  was  nothing  for  memory  to  dwell  on 
that  could  soothe  the  pang  of  separation — none  of  those 
tender  though  melancholy  circumstances,  which  endear 
the   parting  scene — nothing  to  melt  sorrow  into   those 


106  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

blessed  tears,  sent  like  the  dews  of,  heaven  to  revive  the 
heart  in  the  parting  hour  of  anguish. 

To  render  her  widowed  situation  more  desolate,  she 
had  incurred  her  father's  displeasure  by  her  unfortunate 
attachment,  and  was  an  exile  from  the  paternal  roof. 
But  could  the  sympathy  and  kind  offices  of  friends  have 
reached  a  spirit  so  shocked  and  driven  in  by  horror,  she 
would  have  experienced  no  want  of  consolation,  for  the 
Irish  are  a  people  of  quick  and  generous  sensibilities. 
The  most  delicate  and  cherishing  attentions  were  paid 
her  by  families  of  wealth  and  distinction.  She  was  led 
into  society,  and  they  tried  by  all  kinds  of  occupation 
and  amusement  to  dissipate  her  grief,  and  wean  her  from 
the  tragical  story  of  her  loves.  But  it  was  all  in  vain. 
There  are  some  strokes  of  calamity  which  scathe  and 
scorch  the  soul — which  penetrate  to  the  vital  seat  of 
happiness — and  blast  it,  never  again  to  put  forth  bud  or 
blossom.  She  never  objected  to  frequent  the  haunts  of 
pleasure,  but  was  as  much  alone  there  as  in  the  depths 
of  solitude ;  walking  about  in  a  sad  reverie,  apparently 
unconscious  of  the  world  around  her.  She  carried  with 
her  an  inward  woe  that  mocked  at  all  the  blandishments 
of  friendship,  and  "  heeded  not  the  song  of  the  charmer, 
charm  he  never  so  wisely." 

The  person  who  told  me  her  story  had  seen  her  at  a 
masquerade.  There  can  be  no  exhibition  of  far-gone 
wretchedness  more  striking  and  painful  than  to  meet  it 
in  such  a  scene.     To  find  it  wandering  like  a  spectre, 


THE  BEOKEN  HEART.  107 

lonely  and  joyless,  where  all  around  is  gay — to  see  it 
dressed  out  in  the  trappings  of  mirtii,  and  looking  so 
wan  and  woe-begone,  as  if  it  had  tried  in  vain  to  cheat  the 
poor  heart  into  a  momentary  forgetfulness  of  sorrow. 
After  strolling  through  the  splendid  rooms  and  giddy 
crowd  with  an  air  of  utter  abstraction,  she  sat  herself 
down  on  the  steps  of  an  orchestra,  and,  looking  about  for 
some  time  with  a  vacant  air,  that  showed  her  insensibil- 
ity to  the  garish  scene,  she  began,  with  the  capricious- 
ness  of  a  sickly  heart,  to  warble  a  little  plaintiye  air. 
She  had  an  exquisite  voice ;  but  on  this  occasion  it  was 
so  simple,  so  touching,  it  breathed  forth  such  a  soul  of 
wretchedness,  that  she  drew  a  crowd  mute  and  silent 
around  her,  and  melted  every  one  into  tears. 

The  story  of  one  so  true  and  tender  could  not  but  ex- 
cite great  interest  in  a  country  remarkable  for  enthu- 
siasm. It  completely  won  the  heart  of  a  brave  officer, 
who  paid  his  addresses  to  her,  and  thought  that  one  so 
true  to  the  dead  could  not  but  prove  affectionate  to  the 
living.  She  declined  his  attentions,  for  her  thoughts 
were  irrevocably  engrossed  by  the  memory  of  her  former 
lover.  He,  however,  persisted  in  his  suit.  He  solicited 
not  her  tenderness,  but  her  esteem.  He  was  assisted  by 
her  conviction  of  his  worth,  and  her  sense  of  her  own 
destitute  and  dependent  situation,  for  she  was  existing  on 
the  kindness  of  friejids.  In  a  word,  he  at  length  suc- 
ceeded in  gaining  her  hand,  though  with  the  solemn 
assurance,  that  her  heart  was  unalterably  another's. 


108  THE  8KETCE-B00K. 

He  took  her  witli  him  to  Sicily,  hoping  that  a  change 
of  scene  might  wear  out  the  remembrance  of  early  woes. 
She  was  an  amiable  and  exemplary  wife,  and  made  an 
effort  to  be  a  happy  one;  but  nothing  could  cure  the 
silent  and  devouring  melancholy  that  had  entered  into 
her  very  soul.  She  wasted  away  in  a  slow,  but  hopeless 
decline,  and  at  length  sunk  into  the  grave,  the  victim  of  a 
broken  heart. 

It  was  on  her  that  Moore,  the  distinguished  Irish  poet, 
composed  the  following  lines : 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 

And  lovers  around  her  are  sighing  ; 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps,  ^ 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying.  ^ 

She  sings  the  wild  songs  of  her  dear  native  plains, 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking — 
Ah  !  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 

How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking  ! 

He  had  lived  for  his  love — for  his  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him — 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him  I 

Oh!  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest, 

When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow  ; 
They'll  shine  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the  west. 

From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow  I 


THE   AET   OF  BOOK-MAKING. 

"  If  that  severe  doom  of  Synesius  be  true — 'It  is  a  greater  offence  to  steal 
dead  men's  labor,  than  their  clothes,'  what  shall  become  of  most  vvriters  ?  " 

Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholt. 


HAVE  often  wondered  at  the  extreme  fecundity 
of  the  press,  and  how  it  comes  to  pass  that  so 
many  heads,  on  which  nature  seemed  to  have 
inflicted  the  curse  of  barrenness,  should  teem  with  volu-  - 
minous  productions.  As  a  man  travels  on,  however,  in 
the  journey  of  life,  his  objects  of  wonder  daily  diminish, 
and  he  is  continually  finding  out  some  very  simple  cause 
for  some  great  matter  of  marvel.  Thus  have  I  chanced, 
in  my  peregrinations  about  this  great  metropolis,  to 
blunder  upon  a  scene  which  unfolded  to  me  some  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  book-making  craft,  and  at  once  put  an 
end  to  my  astonishment. 

I  was  one  summer's  day  loitering  through  the  great  sa- 
loons of  the  British  Museum,  with  that  listlessness-with 
which  one  is  apt  to  saunter  about  a  museurd  in  warm 
weather ;  sometimes  lolling  over  the  glass  cases  of  min- 
erals, sometimes  studying  the  hieroglyphics  on  an  Egyp- 
tian mummy,  and  sometimes  trying,  with  nearly  equal 

success,  to  comprehend  the  allegorical  paintings  on  the 

109 


110  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

lofty  ceilings.  Whilst  I  was  gazing  about  in  this  idle 
wajj^  my  attention  was  attracted  to  a  distant  door,  at  the 
end  of  a  suite  of  apartments.  It  was  closed,  but  every 
now  and  then  it  would  open,  and  some  strange-favored 
being,  generally  clothed  in  black,  would  steal  forth,  and 
glide  through  the  rooms,  without  noticing  any  of  the  sur- ' 
rounding  objects.  There  was  an  air  of  mystery  about 
this  that  piqued  my  languid  curiosity,  and  I  determined 
to  attempt  the  passage  of  that  strait,  and  to  explore  the 
unknown  regions  beyond.  The  door  yielded  to  my  hand, 
with  that  facility  with  which  the  portals  of  enchanted 
castles  yield  to  the  adventurous  knight-errant.  I  found 
myself  in  a  spacious  chamber,  surrounded  with  great 
cases  of  venerable  books.  Above  the  cases,  and  just 
under  the  cornice,  were  arranged  a  great  number  of 
black-looking  portraits  of  ancient  authors.  About  the 
room  were  placed  long  tables,  with  stands  for  reading 
and  writing,  at  which  sat  many  pale,  studious  personages, 
poring  intently  over  dusty  volumes,  rummaging  among 
mouldy  manuscripts,  and  taking  copious  notes  of  their 
contents.  A  hushed  stillness  reigned  through  this  mys- 
terious apartment,  excepting  that  you  might  hear  the 
racing  of  pens  over  sheets  of  paper,  or  occasionally,  the 
deep  sigh  of  one  of  these  sages,  as  he  shifted  his  position 
to  turn  over  the  page  of  an  old  folio ;  doubtless  arising 
from  that  hollowness  and  flatulency  incident  to  learned 
research. 

Now  and  then  one  of  these  personages  would  write 


m  TEE  BRITISH  LIBRARY.  HI 

sometliing  on  a  small  slip  of  paper,  and  ring  a  bell, 
whereupon  a  familiar  would  appear,  take  the  paper  in 
profound  silence,  glide  out  of  the  room,  and  return  short- 
ly loaded  with  ponderous  tomes,  upon  which  the  other 
would  fall  tooth  and  nail  with  famished  voracity.  I  had 
no  longer  a  doubt  that  I  had  happened  upon  a  body 
of  magi,  deeply  engaged  in  the  study  of  occult  sciences. 
The  scene  reminded  me  of  an  old  Arabian  tale,  of  a 
philosopher  shut  up  in  an  enchanted  library,  in  the 
bosom  of  a  mountain,  which  opened  only  once  a  year ; 
where  he  made  the  spirits  of  the  place  bring  him  book^ 
of  all  kinds  of  dark  knowledge,  so  that  at  the  end  of  the 
year,  when  the  magic  portal  once  more  swung  open  on 
its  hinges,  he  issued  forth  so  versed  in  forbidden  lore,  as 
to  be  able  to  soar  above  the  heads  of  the  multitude,  and 
to  control  the  powers  of  nature. 

My  curiosity  being  now  fully  aroused,  I  whispered  to 
one  of  the  familiars,  as  he  wels  about  to  leave  the  room, 
and  begged  an  interpretation  of  the  strange  scene  before 
me.  A  few  words  were  sufficient  for  the  purpose.  I 
found  that  these  mysterious  personages,  whom  I  had 
mistaken  for  magi,  were  principally  authors,  and  in  the 
very  act  of  manufacturing  books.  I  was,  in  fact,  in  the 
reading-room  of  the  great  British  Library — an  immense 
collection  of  volumes  of  all  ages  and  languages,  many  of 
which  are  now  forgotten,  and  most  of  which  are  seldom 
read :  one  of  these  sequestered  pools  of  obsolete  litera- 
ture, to  which  modern  authors  repair,  and  draw  buckets 


112  THE  8KETCE.B00K. 

full  of  classic  lore,  or  "  pure  English,  undefiled,"  where- 
with to  swell  their  own  scanty  rills  of  thought. 

Being  now  in  possession  of  the  secret,  I  sat  down  in  a 
corner,  and  watched  the  process  of  this  book  manufac- 
tory. I  noticed  one  lean,  bilious-looking  wight,  who 
sought  none  but  the  most  worm-eaten  volumes,  printed 
in  black-letter.  He  was  evidently  constructing  some 
work  of  profound  erudition,  that  would  be  purchased 
by  every  man  who  wished  to  be  thought  learned,  placed 
upon  a  conspicuous  shelf  of  his  library,  or  laid  open 
upon  his  table ;  but  never  read.  I  observed  him,  now 
and  then,  draw  a  large  fragment  of  biscuit  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  gnaw ;  whether  it  was  his  dinner,  or  whether 
he  was  endeavoring  to  keep  off  that  exhaustion  of  the 
stomach  produced  by  much  pondering  over  dry  works, 
I  leave  to  harder  students  than  myself  to  determine. 

There  was  one  dapper  little  gentleman  in  bright-col- 
ored clothes,  with  a  chirping,  gossiping  expression  of 
countenance,  who  had  all  the  appearance  of  an  author  on 
good  terms  with  his  bookseller.  After  considering  him 
attentively,  I  recognized  in  him  a  diligent  getter-up  of 
miscellaneous  works,  which  bustled  off  well  with  thei 
trade.  I  was  curious  to  see  how  he  manufactured  his 
wares.  He  made  more  stir  and  show  of  business  than 
any  of  the  others  ;  dipping  into  various  books,  fluttering 
over  the  leaves  of  manuscripts,  taking  a  morsel  out  of  one, 
a  morsel  out  of  another,  "  line  upon  line,  precept  upon 
precept,  here  a  little  and  there  a  little."     The  contents  of ! 


THE  ABT  OF  BOOK-MAKINQ,  118 

his  book  seemed  to  be  as  heterogeneous  as  those  of  the 
witches'  caldron  in  Macbeth.  It  was  here  a  finger  and 
there  a  thumb,  toe  of  frog  and  blind- worm's  sting,  with 
his  own  gossip  poured  in  like  "  baboon's  blood,"  to  make 
the  medley  "  slab  and  good." 

After  all,  thought  I,  may  not  this  pilfering  disposition 
be  implanted  in  authors  for  wise  purposes ;  may  it  not 
be  the  way  in  which  Providence  has  taken  care  that  the 
seeds  of  knowledge  and  wisdom  shall  be  preserved  from 
age  to  age,  in  spite  of  the  inevitable  decay  of  the  works 
in  which  they  were  first  produced  ?  We  see  that  nature 
has  wisely,  though  whimsically,  provided  for  the  convey- 
ance of  seeds  from  clime  to  clime,  in  the  maws  of  certain 
birds ;  so  that  animals,  which,  in  themselves,  are  little 
better  than  carrion,  and  apparently  the  lawless  plunder- 
ers of  the  orchard  ai^d  the  cornfield,  are,  in  fact,  nature's 
carriers  to  disperse  and  perpetuate  her  blessings.  In 
like  manner,  the  beauties  and  fine  thoughts  of  ancient 
and  obsolete  authors  are  caught  up  by  these  flights  of 
predatory  writers,  and  cast  forth  again  to  flourish  and 
bear  fruit  in  a  remote  and  distant  tract  of  time.  Many  of 
their  works,  also,  undergo  a  kind  of  metempsychosis,  and 
spring  up  under  new  forms.  What  was  formerly  a  pon- 
derous history  revives  in  the  shape  of  a  romance — an  old 
legend  changes  into  a  modern  play — and  a  sober  philo- 
sophical treatise  furnishes  the  body  for  a  whole  series  of 
bouncing  and  sparkling  essays.  Thus  it  is  in  the  clear- 
ing of  our  American  woodlands ;  where  we  burn  down  a 
8 


114  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

forest  of  stately  pines,  a  progeny  of  dwarf  oaks  start  up 
in  their  place :  and  we  never  see  the  prostrate  trunk  of  a 
tree  mouldering  into  soil,  but  it  gives  birth  to  a  whole 
tribe  of  fungi. 

Let  us  not,  then,  lament  over  the  decay  and  oblivion 
into  which  ancient  writers  descend ;  they  do  but  submit 
to  the  great  law  of  nature,  which  declares  that  all  sublu- 
nary shapes  of  matter  shall  be  limited  in  their  duration, 
but  which  decrees,  also,  that  their  elements  shall  never 
perish.  Generation  after  generation,  both  in  animal 
and  vegetable  life,  passes  away,  but  the  vital  principle 
is  transmitted  to  posterity,  and  the  species  continue  to 
flourish.  Thus,  also,  do  authors  beget  authors,  and 
having  produced  a  numerous  progeny,  in  a  good  old  age 
they  sleep  with  their  fathers,  that  is  to  say,  with  the 
authors  who  preceded  them — and  from  whom  they  had 
stolen. 

Whilst  I  was  indulging  in  these  rambling  fancies,  I 
had  leaned  my  head  against  a  pile  of  reverend  folios. 
Whether  it  was  owing  to  the  soporific  emanations  from 
these  works ;  or  to  the  profound  quiet  of  the  room ;  or  to 
the  lassitude  arising  from  much  wandering ;  or  to  an  un- 
lucky habit  of  napping  at  improper  times  and  places, 
with  which  I  am  grievously  afflicted,  so  it  was,  that  I  fell 
into  a  doze.  Still,  however,  my  imagination  continued 
busy,  and  indeed  the  same  scene  remained  before  my 
mind's  eye,  only  a  little  changed  in  some  of  the  details. 
I  dreamt  that  the  chamber  was  still  decorated  with  the 


MY  BREAM.  116 

portraits  of  ancient  authors,  but  that  the  number  was  in- 
creased. The  long  tables  had  disappeared,  and,  in  place 
of  the  sage  magi,  I  beheld  a  ragged,  threadbare  throng, 
such  as  may  be  seen  plying  about  the  great  repository  of 
cast-off  clothes,  Monmouth-street.  Whenever  they  seized 
upon  a  book,  by  one  of  those  incongruities  common  to 
dreams,  methought  it  turned  into  a  garment  of  foreign 
or  antique  fashion,  with  which  they  proceeded  to  equip 
themselves.  I  noticed,  however,  that  no  one  pretended  to 
clothe  himself  from  any  particular  suit,  but  took  a  sleeve 
from  one,  a  cape  from  another,  a  skirt  from  a  third,  thus 
decking  himself  out  piecemeal,  while  some  of  his  original 
rags  would  peep  out  from  among  his  borrowed  finery. 

There  was  a  portly,  rosy,  well-fed  parson,  whom  I  ob- 
served ogling  several  mouldy  polemical  writers  through 
an  eye-glass.  He  soous  contrived  to  slip  on  the  volumin- 
ous mantle  of  one  of  the  old  fathers,  and,  having  pur- 
loined the  gray  beard  of  another,  endeavored  to  look 
exceedingly  wise ;  but  the  smirking  commonplace  of  his 
countenance  set  at  naught  all  the  trappings  of  wisdom. 
One  sickly-looking  gentleman  was  busied  embroidering  a 
very  flimsy  garment  with  gold  thread  drawn  out  of  sev- 
eral old  court-dresses  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 
Another  had  trimmed  himself  magnificently  from  an  illu- 
minated manuscript,  had  stuck  a  nosegay  in  his  bosom, 
culled  from  "  The  Paradise  of  Daintie  Devices,"  and  hav- 
ing put  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  hat  on  one  side  of  his  head, 
strutted  off  with  an  exquisite  air  of  vulgar  elegance.    A 


116  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

third,  who  was  but  of  puny  dimensions,  had  bolstered 
himself  out  bravely  with  the  spoils  from  several  obscure 
tracts  of  philosophy,  so  that  he  had  a  very  imposing 
front ;  but  he  was  lamentably  tattered  in  rear,  and  I  per- 
ceived that  he  had  patched  his  small-clothes  with  scraps 
of  parchment  from  a  Latin  author. 

There  were  some  well-dressed  gentlemen,  it  is  true, 
who  only  helped  themselves  to  a  gem  or  so,  which  spar- 
kled among  their  own  ornaments,  without  eclipsing  them. 
Some,  too,  seemed  to  contemplate  the  costumes  of  the 
old  writers,  merely  to  imbibe  their  principles  of  taste, 
and  to  catch  their  air  and  spirit ;  but  I  grieve  to  say,  that 
too  many  were  apt  to  array  themselves  from  top  to  toe 
in  the  patchwork  manner  I  have  mentioned.  I  shall  not 
omit  to  speak  of  one  genius,  in  drab  breeches  and  gaiters, 
and  an  Arcadian  hat,  who  had  a  violent  propensity  to  the 
pastoral,  but  whose  rural  wanderings  had  been  confined 
to  the  classic  haunts  of  Primrose  Hill,  and  the  solitudes 
of  the  Eegent's  Park.  He  had  decked  himself  in  wreaths 
and  ribbons  from  all  the  old  pastoral  poets,  and,  hanging 
his  head  on  one  side,  went  about  with  a  fantastical  lack- 
a-daisical  air,  "babbling  about  green  fields."  But  the 
personage  that  most  struck  my  attention  was  a  pragmati- 
cal old  gentleman,  in  clerical  robes,  with  a  remarkably 
large  and  square,  but  bald  head.  He  entered  the  room 
wheezing  and  puffing,  elbowed  his  way  through  the! 
throng,  with  a  look  of  sturdy  self-confidence,  and  having 
laid  hands  upon  a  thick  Greek  quarto,  clapped  it  upon 


MY  BREAM,  117 

his  head,  and  swept  majestically  away  in  a  formidable 
frizzled  wig. 

In  the  height  of  this  literary  masquerade,  a  cry  sud- 
denly resounded  from  every  side,  of  "  Thieves !  thieves !  " 
I  looked,  and  lo !  the  portraits  about  the  wall  became 
animated !  The  old  authors  thrust  out,  first  a  head,  then 
a  shoulder,  from  the  canvas,  looked  down  curiously,  for 
an  instant,  upon  the  motley  throng,  and  then  descended 
with  fury  in  their  eyes,  to  claim  their  rifled  property. 
The  scene  of  scampering  and  hubbub  that  ensued  baffles 
all  description.  The  unhappy  culprits  endeavored  in  vain 
Ito  escape  with  their  plunder.  On  one  side  might  be  seen 
half  a  dozen  old  monks,  stripping  a  modern  professor ;  on 
another,  there  was  sad  devastation  carried  into  the  ranks 
of  modern  dramatic  writers.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
side  by  side,  raged  round  the  field  like  Castor  and  Pollux, 
and  sturdy  Ben  Jonson  enacted  more  wonders  than  when 
a  volunteer  with  the  army  in  Flanders.  As  to  the  dap- 
per little  compiler  of  farragos,  mentioned  some  time 
since,  he  had  arrayed  himself  in  as  many  patches  and 
colors  as  Harlequin,  and  there  was  as  fierce  a  contention 
of  claimants  about  him,  as  about  the  dead  body  of  Patro- 
clus.  I  was  grieved  to  see  many  men,  to  whom  I  had 
been  accustomed  to  look  up  with  awe  and  reverence,  fain 
to  steal  off  with  scarce  a  rag  to  cover  their  nakedness. 
Just  then  my  eye  was  caught  by  the  pragmatical  old  gen- 
tleman in  the  Greek  grizzled  wig,  who  was  scrambling 
away  in  sore  affright  with  half  a  score  of  authors  in  full 


118  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

cry  after  him !  They  were  close  upon  his  haunches :  in  a 
twinkling  off  went  his  wig ;  at  every  turn  some  strip  of 
raiment  was  peeled  away ;  until  in  a  few  moments,  from 
his  domineering  pomp,  he  shrunk  into  a  little,  pursy, 
"  chopped  bald  shot,"  and  made  his  exit  with  only  a  few 
tags  and  rags  fluttering  at  his  back. 

There  was  something  so  ludicrous  in  the  catastrophe 
of  this  learned  Theban,  that  I  burst  into  an  immoderate 
fit  of  laughter,  which  broke  the  whole  illusion.  The  tu- 
mult and  the  scuffle  were  at  an  end.  The  chamber  re- 
sumed its  usual  appearance.  The  old  authors  shrunk 
back  into  their  picture-frames,  and  hung  in  shadowy 
solemnity  along  the  walls.  In  short,  I  found  myself 
wide  awake  in  my  corner,  with  the  whole  assemblage  of 
book-worms  gazing  at  me  with  astonishment.  Nothing 
of  the  dream  had  been  real  but  my  burst  of  laughter,  a 
sound  never  before  heard  in  that  grave  sanctuary,  and 
so  abhorrent  to  the  ears  of  wisdom,  as  to  electrify  the 
fraternity. 

The  librarian  now  stepped  up  to  me,  and  demanded 
whether  I  had  a  card  of  admission.  At  first  I  did  not 
comprehend  him,  but  I  soon  found  that  the  library  was 
a  kind  of  literary  "  preserve,"  subject  to  game-laws,  and 
that  no  one  must  presume  to  hunt  there  without  special 
license  and  permission.  In  a  word,  I  stood  convicted  of 
being  an  arrant  poacher,  and  was  glad  to  make  a  precipi- 
tate retreat,  lest  I  should  have  a  whole  pack  of  authors 
let  loose  upon  me. 


>jii?fi'iiifiTf 7iiii|i|ir'' 


^^^^VT\^^' 


;^^4^ii^^ 


A    ROYAL    POET. 

Thougli  your  body  be  confined, 

And  soft  love  a  prisoner  bound, 
Yet  the  beauty  of  your  mind 
Neither  check  nor  chain  hath  found. 
Look  out  nobly,  then,  and  dare 
Even  the  fetters  that  you  wear. 

Fletcheb. 

^^p^N  a  soft  sunny  morning  in  the  genial  month  of 

^^«    May,  I  made  an  excursion  to  Windsor  Castle. 

E^.j  It  is  a  place  full  of  storied  and  poetical  asso- 
ciations. The  very  external  aspect  of  the  proud  old 
pile  is  enough  to  inspire  high  thought.  It  rears  its 
irregular  walls  and  massive  towers,  like  a  mural  crown, 
round  the  brow  of  a  lofty  ridge,  waves  its  royal  banner 
in  the  clouds,  and  looks  down,  with  a  lordly  air,  upon 
the  surrounding  world. 

On  this  morning  the  weather  was  of  that  voluptuous 
vernal  kind,  which  calls  forth  all  the  latent  romance  of  a 
man's  temperament,  filling  his  mind  with  music,  and  dis- 
posing him  to  quote  poetry  and  dream  of  beauty.  In 
wandering  through  the  magnificent  saloons  and  long 
echoing  galleries  of  the  castle,  I  passed  with  indiffer- 
ence by  whole  rows  of  portraits  of  warriors  and  states- 

119 


120  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

men,  but  lingered  in  tlie  chamber,  where  hang  the 
likenesses  of  the  beauties  which  graced  the  gay  court 
of  Charles  the  Second;  and  as  I  gazed  upon  them,  de- 
picted with  amorous,  half-dishevelled  tresses,  and  the 
sleepy  eye  of  love,  I  blessed  the  pencil  of  Sir  Peter 
Lely,  which  had  thus  enabled  me  to  bask  in  the  re- 
flected rays  of  beauty.  In  traversing  also  the  "  large 
green  courts,"  with  sunshine  beaming  on  the  gray  walls, 
and  glancing  along  the  velvet  turf,  my  mind  was  en- 
grossed with  the  image  of  the  tender,  the  gallant,  but 
hapless  Surrey,  and  his  account  of  his  loiterings  about 
them  in  his  stripling  days,  when  enamored  of  the  Lady 
Geraldine — 

"  With  eyes  cast  up  unto  the  maiden's  tower. 
With  easie  sighs,  such  as  men  draw  in  love." 

In  this  mood  of  mere  poetical  susceptibility,  I  visited 
the  ancient  Keep  of  the  Castle,  where  James  the  First 
of  Scotland,  the  pride  and  theme  of  Scottish  poets  and 
historians,  was  for  many  years  of  his  youth  detained  a 
prisoner  of  state.  It  is  a  large  gray  tower,  that  has 
stood  the  brunt  of  ages,  and  is  still  in  good  preserva- 
tion. It  stands  on  a  mound,  which  elevates  it  above 
the  other  parts  of  the  castle,  and  a  great  flight  of  steps 
leads  to  the  interior.  In  the  armory,  a  Gothic  hall, 
furnished  with  weapons  of  various  kinds  and  ages,  I 
was  shown  a  coat  of  armor  hanging  against  the  wall, 
which  had  once  belonged  to  James.     Hence  I  was  con- 


A  BOTAL  POET.  121 

ducted  up  a  staircase  to  a  suite  of  apartments  of  faded 
magnificence,  hung  with  storied  tapestry,  which  formed 
his  prison,  and  the  scene  of  that  passionate  and  fanci- 
ful amour,  which  has  woven  into  the  web  of  his  story 
the  magical  hues  of  poetry  and  fiction. 

The  whole  history  of  this  amiable  but  unfortunate 
prince  is  highly  romantic.  At  the  tender  age  of  eleven 
he  was  sent  from  home  by  his  father,  Eobert  III.,  and 
destined  for  the  French  court,  to  be  reared  under  the 
eye  of  the  French  monarch,  secure  from  the  treachery 
and  danger  that  surrounded  the  royal  house  of  Scot- 
land. It  was  his  mishap  in  the  course  of  his  voyage 
to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  English,  and  he  was  de- 
tained prisoner  by  Henry  lY.,  notwithstanding  that  a 
truce  existed  between  the  two  countries. 

The  intelligence  of  his  capture,  coming  in  the  train  of 
many  sorrows  and  disasters,  proved  fatal  to  his  unhappy 
father.  "  The  news,"  we  are  told,  "  was  brought  to  him 
while  at  supper,  and  did  so  overwhelm  him  with  grief, 
that  he  was  almost  ready  to  give  up  the  ghost  into  the 
hands  of  the  servant  that  attended  him.  But  being  car- 
ried to  his  bed-chamber,  he  abstained  from  all  food,  and 
in  three  days  died  of  hunger  and  grief  at  Rothesay."  ^ 

James  was  detained  in  captivity  above  eighteen  years ; 
but  though  deprived  of  personal  liberty,  he  was  treated 
with  the  respect  due  to  his  rank.     Care  was  taken  to  in- 

*  Buchanan. 


122  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

struct  him  in  all  the  branches  of  useful  knowledge  culti- 
vated  at  that  period,  and  to  give  him  those  mental  and 
personal  accomplishments  deemed  proper  for  a  prince. 
Perhaps,  in  this  respect,  his  imprisonment  was  an  advan- 
tage, as  it  enabled  him  to  apply  himself  the  more  exclu- 
sively to  his  improvement,  and  quietly  to  imbibe  that 
rich  fund  of  knowledge,  and  to  cherish  those  elegant 
tastes,  which  have  given  such  a  lustre  to  his  memory. 
The  picture  drawn  of  him  in  early  life,  by  the  Scottish 
historians,  is  highly  captivating,  and  seems  rather  the 
description  of  a  hero  of  romance,  than  of  a  character  in 
real  history.  He  was  well  learnt,  we  are  told,  "  to  fight 
with  the  sword,  to  joust,  to  tournay,  to  wrestle,  to  sing 
and  dance ;  he  was  an  expert  mediciner,  right  crafty  in 
playing  both  of  lute  and  harp,  and  sundry  other  instru- 
ments of  music,  and  was  expert  in  grammar,  oratory,  and 
poetry."  * 

"With  this  combination  of  manly  and  delicate  accom- 
plishments, fitting  him  to  shine  both  in  active  and  ele- 
gant life,  and  calculated  to  give  him  an  intense  relish  for 
joyous  existence,  it  must  have  been  a  severe  trial,  in  an 
age  of  bustle  and  chivalry,  to  pass  the  spring-time  of  his 
years  in  monotonous  captivity.  It  was  the  good  fortune 
of  James,  however,  to  be  gifted  with  a  powerful  poetic 
fancy,  and  to  be  visited  in  his  prison  by  the  choicest  in- 
spirations of  the  muse.     Some  minds  corrode  and  grow 

*  Ballenden's  Translation  of  Hector  Boyce. 


A  ROYAL  POET.  123 

inactive,  under  the  loss  of  personal  liberty ;  others  grow 
morbid  and  irritable ;  but  it  is  the  nature  of  the  poet  to 
become  tender  and  imaginative  in  the  loneliness  of  con- 
finement. He  banquets  upon  the  honey  of  his  own 
thoughts,  and,  like  the  captive  bird,  pours  forth  his  soul 
in  melody. 

Have  you  not  seen  the  nightingale, 

A  pilgrim  coop'd  into  a  cage, 
How  doth  she  chant  her  wonted  tale. 
In  that  her  lonely  hermitage  I 
Even  there  her  charming  melody  doth  prove 
That  all  her  boughs  are  trees,  her  cage  a  grove.* 

Indeed,  it  is  the  divine  attribute  of  the  imagination, 
that  it  is  irrepressible,  unconfinable ;  that  when  the  real 
world  is  shut  out,  it  can  cjeate  a  world  for  itself,  and 
with  a  necromantic  power,  can  conjure  up  glorious  shapes 
and  forms,  and  brilliant  visions,  to  make  solitude  pop- 
ulous, and  irradiate  the  gloom  of  the  dungeon.  Such 
was  the  world  of  pomp  and  pageant  that  lived  round 
Tasso  in  his  dismal  cell  at  Ferrara,  when  he  conceived 
the  splendid  scenes  of  his  Jerusalem ;  and  we  may  con- 
sider the  "King's  Quair,"  composed  by  James,  during  his 
captivity  at  Windsor,  as  another  of  those  beautiful  break- 
ings-forth  of  the  soul  from  the  restraint  and  gloom  of  the 
prison  house. 

The  subject  of  the  poem  is  his  love  for  the  Lady  Jane 

*  Roger  L'Estrange. 


124  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Beaufort,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Somerset,  and  a  prin- 
cess of  the  blood  royal  of  England,  of  whom  he  became 
enamored  in  the  course  of  his  captivity.  What  gives  it 
a  peculiar  value,  is  that  it  may  be  considered  a  transcript 
of  the  royal  bard's  true  feelings,  and  the  story  of  his  real 
loves  and  fortunes.  It  is  not  often  that  sovereigns  write 
poetry,  or  that  poets  deal  in  fact.  It  is  gratifying  to  the 
pride  of  a  common  man,  to  find  a  monarch  thus  suing,  as 
it  were,  for  admission  into  his  closet,  and  seeking  to  win 
his  favor  by  administering  to  his  pleasures.  It  is  a  proof 
of  the  honest  equality  of  intellectual  competition,  which 
strips  off  all  the  trappings  of  factitious  dignity,  brings 
the  candidate  down  to  a  level  with  his  fellow-men,  and 
obliges  him  to  depend  on  his  own  native  powers  for  dis- 
tinction. It  is  curious,  too,  to  get  at  the  history  of  a 
monarch's  heart,  and  to  find  the  simple  affections  of  hu- 
man nature  throbbing  under  the  ermine.  But  James  had 
learnt  to  be  a  poet  before  he  was  a  king :  he  was  schooled 
in  adversity,  and  reared  in  the  company  of  his  own 
thoughts.  Monarchs  have  seldom  time  to  parley  with 
their  hearts,  or  to  meditate  their  minds  into  poetry; 
and  had  James  been  brought  up  amidst  the  adulation 
and  gayety  of  a  court,  we  should  never,  in  all  probability, 
have  had  such  a  poem  as  the  Quair. 

I  have  been  particularly  interested  by  those  parts  of 
the  poem  which  breathe  his  immediate  thoughts  concern- 
ing his  situation,  or  which  are  connected  with  the  apart- 
ment in  the  tower.     They  have  thus  a  personal  and  local 


A  BOTAL  POET,  126 

charm,  and  are  given  with  such  circumstantial  truth, 
as  to  make  the  reader  present  with  the  captive  in  his 
prison,  and  the  companion  of  his  meditations. 

Such  is  the  account  which  he  gives  of  his  weariness 
of  spirit,  and  of  the  incident  which  first  suggested  the 
idea  of  writing  the  poem.  It  was  the  still  midwatch 
of  a  clear  moonlight  night;  the  stars,  he  says,  were 
twinkling  as  fire  in  the  high  vault  of  heaven :  and  "  Cyn- 
thia rinsing  her  golden  locks  in  Aquarius."  He  lay  in 
bed  wakeful  and  restless,  and  took  a  book  to  beguile 
the  tedious  hours.  The  book  he  chose  was  Boetius' 
Consolations  of  Philosophy,  a  work  popular  among  the 
writers  of  that  day,  and  which  had  been  translated  by 
his  great  prototype  Chaucer.  From  the  high  eulogium 
in  which  he  indulges,  it  is  evident  this  was  one  of  his 
favorite  volumes  while  in  prison :  and  indeed  it  is  an 
admirable  text-book  for  meditation  under  adversity.  It 
is  the  legacy  of  a  noble  and  enduring  spirit,  purified 
by  sorrow  and  suffering,  bequeathing  to  its  successors 
in  calamity  the  maxims  of  sweet  morality,  and  the 
trains  of  eloquent  but  simple  reasoning,  by  which  it 
was  enabled  to  bear  up  against  the  various  ills  of  life. 
It  is  a  talisman,  which  the  unfortunate  may  treasure 
up  in  his  bosom,  or,  like  the  good  King  James,  lay  upon 
his  nightly  pillow. 

After  closing  the  volume,  he  turns  its  contents  over 
in  his  mind,  and  gradually  falls  into  a  fit  of  musing  on 
the  fickleness  of  fortune,   the  vicissitudes  of  his  own 


126  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

life,  and  the  evils  that  had  overtaken  him  even  in  his 
tender  youth.  Suddenly  he  hears  the  bell  ringing  to 
matins;  but  its  sound,  chiming  in  with  his  melancholy 
fancies,  seems  to  him  like  a  voice  exhorting  him  to 
write  his  story.  In  the  spirit  of  poetic  errantry  he 
determines  to  comply  with  this  intimation :  he  there- 
fore takes  pen  in  hand,  makes  with  it  a  sign  of  the 
cross  to  implore  a  benediction,  and  sallies  forth  into  the 
fairy  land  of  poetry.  There  is  something  extremely 
fanciful  in  all  this,  and  it  is  interesting  as  furnishing 
a  striking  and  beautiful  instance  of  the  simple  manner 
in  which  whole  trains  of  poetical  thought  are  some- 
times awakened,  and  literary  enterprises  suggested  to 
the  mind. 

In  the  course  of  his  poem  he  more  than  once  bewails 
the  peculiar  hardness  of  his  fate  ;  thus  doomed  to  lonely 
and  inactive  life,  and  shut  up  from  the  freedom  and 
pleasure  of  the  world,  in  which  the  meanest  animal  in- 
dulges unrestrained.  There  is  a  sweetness,  however,  in 
his  very  complaints ;  they  are  the  lamentations  of  an  ami- 
able and  social  spirit  at  being  denied  the  indulgence  of 
its  kind  and  generous  propensities ;  there  is  nothing  in 
them  harsh  nor  exaggerated;  they  flow  with  a  natural 
and  touching  pathos,  and  are  perhaps  rendered  more 
touching  by  their  simple  brevity.  They  contrast  finely 
with  those  elaborate  and  iterated  repinings,  which  we 
sometimes  meet  with  in  poetry ; — the  effusions  of  morbid 
minds  sickening  under  miseries  of  their  own  creating, 


A   ROYAL  POET.  127 

and  venting  their  bitterness  upon  an  unoffending  world. 
James  speaks  of  his  privations  with  acute  sensibility,  but 
having  mentioned  them  passes  on,  as  if  his  manly  mind 
disdained  to  brood  over  unavoidable  calamities.  When 
such  a  spirit  breaks  forth  into  complaint,  however  brief, 
we  are  aware  how  great  must  be  the  suffering  that  ex- 
torts the  murmur.  We  sympathize  with  James,  a  roman- 
tic, active,  and  accomplished  prince,  cut  off  in  the  lusti- 
hood  of  youth  from  all  the  enterprise,  the  noble  uses,  and 
vigorous  delights  of  life ;  as  we  do  with  Milton,  alive  to 
all  the  beauties  of  nature  and  glories  of  art,  when  he 
breathes  forth  brief,  but  deep-toned  lamentations  over 
his  perpetual  blindness. 

Had  not  James  evinced  a  deficiency  of  poetic  artifice, 
we  might  almost  have  su^ected  that  these  lowerings 
of  gloomy  reflection  were  meant  as  preparative  to  the 
brightest  scene  of  his  story;  and  to  contrast  with  that 
refulgence  of  light  and  loveliness,  that  exhilarating  ac- 
companiment of  bird  and  song,  and  foliage  and  flower, 
and  all  the  revel  of  the  year,  with  which  he  ushers  in  the 
lady  of  his  heart.  It  is  this  scene,  in  particular,  which 
throws  all  the  magic  of  romance  about  the  old  Castle 
Keep.  He  had  risen,  he  says,  at  daybreak,  according  to 
custom,  to  escape  from  the  dreary  meditations  of  a  sleep- 
less pillow.  "  Bewailing  in  his  chamber  thus  alone,"  de- 
spairing of  all  joy  and  remedy,  "fortired  of  thought  and 
wobegone,"  he  had  wandered  to  the  window,  to  indulge 
the  captive's  miserable  solace  of  gazing  wistfully  upon 


128  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  world  from  which  he  is  excluded.  The  window 
looked  forth  upon  a  small  garden  which  lay  at  the  foot  of 
the  tower.  It  was  a  quiet,  sheltered  spot,  adorned  with 
arbors  and  green  alleys,  and  protected  from  the  passing 
gaze  by  trees  and  hawthorn  hedges. 

Now  was  there  made,  fast  by  the  tower's  wall, 
A  garden  faire,  and  in  the  corners  set 

An  arbour  green  with  wandis  long  and  small 
Eailed  about,  and  so  with  leaves  beset 

Was  all  the  place  and  hawthorn  hedges  knet, 
That  lyf  *  was  none,  walkyng  there  f  orbye 
That  might  within  scarce  any  wight  espye. 

So  thick  the  branches  and  the  leves  grene, 
Beshaded  all  the  alleys  that  there  were, 

And  midst  of  every  arbour  might  be  sene 
The  sharpe,  grene,  swete  juniper, 

Growing  so  fair,  with  branches  here  and  there, 
That  as  it  seemed  to  a  lyf  without. 
The  boughs  did  spread  the  arbour  all  about. 

And  on  the  small  grene  twistis  f  set 

The  lytel  swete  nightingales,  and  sung 

So  loud  and  clear,  the  hymnis  consecrate 
Of  lovis  use,  now  soft,  now  loud  among, 

That  all  the  garden  and  the  wallis  rung 

Right  of  their  song 

It  was  the  month  of  May,  when  every  thing  was  in 

*  Lyf,  Person.  f  Twistis,  small  boughs  or  twigs. 

Note. — The  language  of  the  quotations  is  generally  modernized. 


A  MOTAL  POET.  129 

bloom ;  and  he  interprets  the  song  of  the  nightingale  into 
the  language  of  his  enamored  feeling : 

Worship,  all  ye  that  lovers  be,  this  May, 
For  of  your  bliss  the  kalends  are  begnn, 

And  sing  with  us,  away,  winter,  away. 

Come,  summer,  come,  the  sweet  season  and  sun. 

As  he  gazes  on  the  scene,  and  listens  to  the  notes  of 
the  birds,  he  gradually  relapses  into  one  of  those  tender 
and  undefinable  reveries,  which  fill  the  youthful  bosom 
in  this  delicious  season.  He  wonders  what  this  love  may 
be,  of  which  he  has  so  often  read,  and  which  thus  seems 
breathed  forth  in  the  quickening  breath  of  May,  and 
melting  all  nature  into  ecstasy  and  song.  If  it  really  be 
so  great  a  felicity,  and  if  it  be  a  boon  thus  generally  dis- 
pensed to  the  most  insignificant  beings,  why  is  he  alone 
cut  off  from  its  enjoyments  ? 

Oft  would  I  think,  0  Lord,  what  may  this  be, 
That  loTe  is  of  such  noble  myght  and  kynde  ? 

Loving  his  f  olke,  and  such  prosperitee 
Is  it  of  him,  as  we  in  books  do  find  : 
May  he  oure  hertes  setten  *  and  unbynd  : 

Hath  he  upon  our  hertes  such  maistrye  ? 

Or  is  all  this  but  f eynit  fantasye  ? 

For  giff  he  be  of  so  grete  excellence, 

That  he  of  every  wight  hath  care  and  charge, 

What  have  I  gilt  f  to  him,  or  done  offense, 
That  I  am  thral'd,  and  birdis  go  at  large  ? 

♦  Setten,  incline.  f  Gilt,  what  injury  have  I  done,  etc. 


130  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

In  tlie  midst  of  his  musing,  as  lie  casts  his  eye  down- 
ward, he  beholds  "the  fairest  and  the  freshest  young 
floure"  that  ever  he  had  seen.  It  is  the  lovely  Lady 
Jane,  walking  in  the  garden  to  enjoy  the  beauty  of  that 
"fresh  May  morrowe."  Breaking  thus  suddenly  upon 
his  sight,  in  the  moment  of  loneliness  and  excited  sus- 
ceptibility, she  at  once  captivates  the  fancy  of  the  ro- 
mantic prince,  and  becomes  the  object  of  his  wandering 
wishes,  the  sovereign  of  his  ideal  world. 

There  is,  in  this  charming  scene,  an  evident  resem- 
blance to  the  early  part  of  Chaucer*s  Knight's  Tale; 
where  Palamon  and  Arcite  fall  in  love  with  Emilia,  whom 
they  see  walking  in  the  garden  of  their  prison.  Perhaps 
the  similarity  of  the  actual  fact  to  the  incident  which  he 
had  read  in  Chaucer  may  have  induced  James  to  dwell 
on  it  in  his  poem.  His  description  of  the  Lady  Jane  is 
given  in  the  picturesque  and  minute  manner  of  his  mas- 
ter ;  and  being  doubtless  taken  from  the  life,  is  a  perfect 
portrait  of  a  beauty  of  that  day.  He  dwells,  with  the 
fondness  of  a  lover,  on  every  article  of  her  apparel,  from 
the  net  of  pearl,  splendent  with  emeralds  and  sapphires, 
that  confined  her  golden  hair,  even  to  the  "goodly  chaine 
of  small  orfeverye"^  about  her  neck,  whereby  there 
hung  a  ruby  in  shape  of  a  heart,  that  seemed,  he  says, 
like  a  spark  of  fire  burning  upon  her  white  bosom.  Her 
dress  of  white  tissue  was  looped  up  to  enable  her  to  walk 

*  Wrought  gold. 


A   ROYAL  POET.  131 

with  more  freedom.  She  was  accompanied  by  two  female 
attendants,  and  about  her  sported  a  little  hound  decor- 
ated with  bells ;  probably  the  small  Italian  hound  of  ex- 
quisite symmetry,  which  was  a  parlor  favorite  and  pet 
among  the  fashionable  dames  of  ancient  times.  James 
closes  his  description  by  a  burst  of  general  eulogium  : 

In  her  was  youth,  beauty,  with  humble  port, 
Bounty,  richesse,  and  womanly  feature  ; 

God  better  knows  than  my  pen  can  report, 

Wisdom,  largesse,  *  estate,  f  and  cunning  X  sure, 

In  every  point  so  guided  her  measure. 

In  word,  in  deed,  in  shape,  in  countenance, 
That  nature  might  no  more  her  child  advance. 

The  departure  of  the  Lady  Jane  from  the  garden  puts  an 
end  to  this  transient  riot  of  the  heart.  With  her  departs 
the  amorous  illusion  that  had  shed  a  temporary  charm 
over  the  scene  of  his  captivity,  and  he  relapses  into  lone- 
liness, now  rendered  tenfold  more  intolerable  by  this 
passing  beam  of  unattainable  beauty.  Through  the  long 
and  weary  day  he  repines  at  his  unhappy  lot,  and  when 
evening  approaches,  and  Phoebus,  as  he  beautifully  ex- 
presses it,  had  "  bade  farewell  to  every  leaf  and  flower," 
he  still  lingers  at  the  window,  and,  laying  his  head  upon 
the  cold  stone,  gives  vent  to  a  mingled  flow  of  love  and 
Borrow,  until,  gradually  lulled  by  the  mute  melancholy  of 
the  twilight  hour,  he  lapses,  "  half  sleeping,  half  swoon," 

*  La/rgesse,  bounty.        f  Estate,  dignity.        X  Ctmning,  discretion. 


132  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

into  a  vision,  wliicli  occupies  the  remainder  of  the  poem, 
and  in  whicli  is  allegoricallj  shadowed  out  the  history  of 
his  passion. 

When  he  wakes  from  his  trance,  he  rises  from  his 
stony  pillow,  and,  pacing  his  apartment,  full  of  dreary 
reflections,  questions  his  spirit,  whither  it  has  been  wan- 
dering; whether,  indeed,  all  that  has  passed  before  his 
dreaming  fancy  has  been  conjured  up  by  preceding  cir- 
cumstances ;  or  whether  it  is  a  vision,  intended  to  com- 
fort and  assure  him  in  his  despondency.  If  the  latter,  he 
prays  that  some  token  may  be  sent  to  confirm  the  prom- 
ise of  happier  days,  given  him  in  his  slumbers.  Sud- 
denly, a  turtle  dove,  of  the  purest  whiteness,  comes  fly- 
ing in  at  the  Avindow,  and  alights  upon  his  hand,  bearing 
in  her  bill  a  branch  of  red  gilliflower,  on  the  leaves  of 
which  is  written,  in  letters  of  gold,  the  following  sen- 
tence : 

Awake  I  awake  !  I  bring,  lover,  I  bring 

The  newis  glad  that  blissful  is,  and  sure 
Of  thy  comfort ;  now  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing, 
For  in  the  heaven  deeretit  is  thy  cure. 

He  receives  the  branch  with  mingled  hope  and  dread ; 
reads  it  with  rapture  :  and  this,  he  says,  was  the  first 
token  of  his  succeeding  happiness.  "Whether  this  is  a 
mere  poetic  fiction,  or  whether  the  Lady  Jane  did  ac- 
tually send  him  a  token  of  her  favor  in  this  romantic 
way,  remains  to  be  determined  according  to  the  faith 
or  fancy  of  the  reader.     He  concludes  his  poem,  by  in- 


A  ROYAL  POET.  133 

timating  that  the  promise  conveyed  in  the  vision  and 
by  the  flower  is  fulfilled,  by  his  being  restored  to  lib- 
erty, and  made  happy  in  the  possession  of  the  sover- 
eign of  his  heart. 

Such  is  the  poetical  account  given  by  James  of  his 
love  adventures  in  Windsor  Castle.  How  much  of  it  is 
absolute  fact,  and  how  much  the  embellishment  of  fancy, 
it  is  fruitless  to  conjecture :  let  us  not,  however,  reject 
every  romantic  incident  as  incompatible  with  real  life ; 
but  let  us  sometimes  take  a  poet  at  his  word.  I  have 
noticed  merely  those  parts  of  the  poem  immediately 
connected  with  the  tower,  and  have  passed  over  a  large 
part,  written  in  the  allegorical  vein,  so  much  cultivated 
at  that  day.  The  language,  of  course,  is  quaint  and 
antiquated,  so  that  the  beauty  of  many  of  its  golden 
phrases  will  scarcely  be  perceived  at  the  present  day ; 
but  it  is  impossible  not  to  be  charmed  with  the  gen- 
uine sentiment,  the  delightful  artlessness  and  urbanity, 
which  prevail  throughout  it.  The  descriptions  of  nature 
too,  with  which  it  is  embellished,  are  given  with  a  truth, 
a  discrimination,  and  a  freshness,  worthy  of  the  most  cul- 
tivated periods  of  the  art. 

As  an  amatory  poem,  it  is  edifying  in  these  days  of 
coarser  thinking,  to  notice  the  nature,  refinement,  and 
exquisite  delicacy  which  pervade  it;  banishing  every 
gross  thought  or  immodest  expression,  and  presenting 
female  loveliness,  clothed  in  all  its  chivalrous  attributes 
of  almost  supernatural  purity  and  grace. 


134  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

James  flourislaed  nearly  about  tlie  time  of  Chaucer 
and  Gower,  and  was  evidently  an  admirer  and  studier 
of  their  writings.  Indeed,  in  one  of  his  stanzas  he  ac- 
knowledges them  as  his  masters ;  and,  in  some  parts  of 
his  poem,  we  find  traces  of  similarity  to  their  produc- 
tions, more  especially  to  those  of  Chaucer.  There  are 
always,  however,  general  features  of  resemblance  in  the 
works  of  contemporary  authors,  which  are  not  so  much 
borrowed  from  each  other  as  from  the  times.  Writers, 
like  bees,  toll  their  sweets  in  the  wide  world ;  they  in- 
corporate with  their  own  conceptions  the  anecdotes  and 
thoughts  current  in  SQK?iety;  and  thus  each  generation 
has  some  features  in  common,  characteristic  of  the  age 
in  which  it  lived. 

James  belongs  to  one  of  the  most  brilliant  eras  of 
our  literary  history,  and  establishes  the  claims  of  his 
country  to  a  participation  in  its  primitive  honois. 
"Whilst  a  small  cluster  of  English  writers  are  constant- 
ly cited  as  the  fathers  of  our  verse,  the  name  of  their 
great  Scottish  compeer  is  apt  to  be  passed  over  in  si- 
lence ;  but  he  is  evidently  worthy  of  being  enrolled  in 
that  little  constellation  of  remote  but  never-failing  lumi- 
naries, who  shine  in  the  highest  firmament  of  litera- 
ture, and  who,  like  morning  stars,  sang  together  at  the 
bright  dawning  of  British  poesy. 

Such  of  my  readers  as  may  not  be  familiar  with  Scot- 
tish history  (though  the  manner  in  which  it  has  of  late 
been  woven  with  captivating  fiction  has  made  it  a  uni- 


A  ROYAL  POET.  135 

versal  study),  may  be  curious  to  learn  something  of  the 
subsequent  history  of  James,  and  the  fortunes  of  his 
love.  His  passion  for  the  Lady  Jane,  as  it  was  the 
solace  of  his  captivity,  so  it  facilitated  his  release,  it 
being  imagined  by  the  court  that  a  connection  with 
the  blood  royal  of  England  would  attach  him  to  its 
own  interests.  He  was  ultimately  restored  to  his  lib- 
erty and  crown,  having  previously  espoused  the  Lady 
Jane,  who  accompanied  him  to  Scotland,  and  made  him 
a  most  tender  and  devoted  wife. 

He  found  his  kingdom  in  great  confusion,  the  feudal 
chieftains  having  taken  advantage  of  the  troubles  and 
irregularities  of  a  long  interregnum  to  strengthen  them- 
selves in  their  possessions,  and  place  themselves  above 
the  power  of  the  laws.  James  sought  to  found  the  basis 
of  his  power  in  the  affections  of  his  people.  He  attached 
the  lower  orders  to  him  by  the  reformation  of  abuses,  the 
temperate  and  equable  administration  of  justice,  the  en- 
couragement of  the  arts  of  peace,  and  the  promotion  of 
every  thing  that  could  diffuse  comfort,  competency,  and 
innocent  enjoyment  through  the  humblest  ranks  of  soci- 
ety. He  mingled  occasionally  among  the  common  people 
in  disguise  ;  visited  their  firesides  ;  entered  into  their 
cares,  their  pursuits,  and  their  amusements ;  informed 
himself  of  the  mechanical  arts,  and  how  they  could  best 
be  patronized  and  improved ;  and  was  thus  an  all-pervad- 
ing spirit,  watching  with  a  benevolent  eye  over  the  mean- 
est of  his  subjects.     Having  in  this  generous  manner 


136  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

made  himself  strong  in  the  hearts  of  the  common  people, 
he  turned  himself  to  curb  the  power  of  the  factious 
nobility;  to  strip  them  of  those  dangerous  immunities 
which  they  had  usurped ;  to  punish  such  as  had  been 
guilty  of  flagrant  offences ;  and  to  bring  the  whole  into 
proper  obedience  to  the  crown.  For  some  time  they  bore 
this  with  outward  submission,  but  with  secret  impatience 
and  brooding  resentment.  A  conspiracy  was  at  length 
formed  against  his  life,  at  the  head  of  which  was  his  own 
uncle,  Eobert  Stewart,  Earl  of  Athol,  who,  being  too  old 
himself  for  the  perpetration  of  the  deed  of  blood,  insti- 
gated his  grandson  Sir  Eobert  Stewart,  together  with  Sir 
Robert  Graham,  and  others  of  less  note,  to  commit  the 
deed.  They  broke  into  his  bedchamber  at  the  Domini- 
can Convent  near  Perth,  where  he  was  residing,  and  bar- 
barously murdered  him  by  oft-repeated  wounds.  His 
faithful  queen,  rushing  to  throw  her  tender  body  between 
him  and  the  sword,  was  twice  wounded  in  the  ineffectual 
attempt  to  shield  him  from  the  assassin ;  and  it  was  not 
until  she  had  been  forcibly  torn  from  his  person,  that  the 
murder  was  accomplished. 

It  was  the  recollection  of  this  romantic  tale  of  former 
times,  and  of  the  golden  little  poem  which  had  its  birth- 
place in  this  Tower,  that  made  me  visit  the  old  pile  with 
more  than  common  interest.  The  suit  of  armor  hanging 
up  in  the  hall,  richly  gilt  and  embellished,  as  if  to  figure 
in  the  tournay,  brought  the  image  of  the  gallant  and  ro- 
mantic prince  vividly  before  my  imagination.     I  paced 


A  ROYAL  POUT.  137 

fche  deserted  chambers  where  he  had  composed  his  poem ; 
I  leaned  upon  the  window,  and  endeavored  to  persuade 
myself  it  was  the  very  one  where  he  had  been  vis- 
ited by  his  vision ;  I  looked  out  upon  the  spot  where  he 
had  first  seen  the  Lady  Jane.  It  was  the  same  genial 
and  joyous  month ;  the  birds  were  again  vying  with  each 
other  in  strains  of  liquid  melody  ;  every  thing  was  burst- 
ing into  vegetation,  and  budding  forth  the  tender  prom- 
ise of  the  year.  Time,  which  delights  to  obliterate  the 
sterner  memorials  of  human  pride,  seems  to  have  passed 
lightly  over  this  little  scene  of  poetry  and  love,  and  to 
have  withheld  his  desolating  hand.  Several  centuries 
have  gone  by,  yet  the  garden  still  flourishes  at  the  foot  of 
the  Tower.  It  occupies  what  was  once  the  moat  of  the 
Keep  ;  and  though  some  parts  have  been  separated  by 
dividing  walls,  yet  others  "have  still  their  arbors  and 
shaded  walks,  as  in  the  days  of  James,  and  the  whole 
is  sheltered,  blooming,  and  retired.  There  is  a  charm 
about  a  spot  that  has  been  printed  by  the  footsteps  of 
departed  beauty,  and  consecrated  by  the  inspirations  of 
the  poet,  which  is  heightened,  rather  than  impaired,  by 
the  lapse  of  ages.  It  is,  indeed,  the  gift  of  poetry  to  hal-  / 
low  every  place  in  which  it  moves  ;  to  breathe  around 
nature  an  odor  more  exquisite  than  the  perfume  of  the 
rose,  and  to  shed  over  it  a  tint  more  magical  than  the 
blush  of  morning. 

Others  may  dwell  on  the  illustriolis  deeds  of  James  as 
a  warrior  and  legislator ;  but  I  have  delighted  to  view  him 


138  THE  8KETGH-B00K. 

merely  as  the  companion  of  his  fellow-men,  the  benefac- 
tor of  the  human  heart,  stooping  from  his  high  estate  to 
sow  the  sweet  flowers  of  poetry  and  song  in  the  paths  ,of 
common  life.  He  was  the  first  to  cultivate  the  vigorous 
and  hardy  plant  of  Scottish  genius,  which  has  since  be- 
come so  prolific  of  the  most  wholesome  and  highly-fla- 
vored fruit.  He  carried  with  him  into  the  sterner  regions 
of  the  north  all  the  fertilizing  arts  of  southern  refinement. 
He  did  every  thing  in  his  power  to  win  his  countrymen  to 
the  gay,  the  elegant,  and  gentle  arts,  which  soften  and 
refine  the  character  of  a  people,  and  wreathe  a  grace 
round  the  loftiness  of  a  proud  and  warlike  spirit.  He 
wrote  many  poems,  which,  unfortunately  for  the  fulness 
of  his  fame,  are  now  lost  to  the  world ;  one,  which  is  still 
preserved,  called  "  Christ's  Kirk  of  the  Green,"  shows 
how  diligently  he  had  made  himself  acquainted  with  the 
rustic  sports  and  pastimes,  which  constitute  such  a 
source  of  kind  and  social  feeling  among  the  Scottish 
peasantry;  and  with  what  simple  and  happy  humor  he 
could  enter  into  their  enjoyments.  He  contributed 
greatly  to  improve  the  national  music ;  and  traces  of  his 
tender  sentiment,  and  elegant  taste,  are  said  to  exist  in 
those  witching  airs,  still  piped  among  the  wild  mountains 
and  lonely  glens  of  Scotland.  He  has  thus  connected  his 
image  with  whatever  is  most  gracious  and  endearing  in 
the  national  character ;  he  has  embalmed  his  memory  in 
song,  and  floated  his  name  to  after  ages  in  the  rich 
streams  of  Scottish  melody.     The  recollection  of  these 


A   BOTAL  POET.  139 

things  was  kindling  at  my  heart  as  I  paced  the  silent 
scene  of  his  imprisonment.  I  have  visited  Yaucluse  with 
as  much  enthusiasm  as  a  pilgrim  would  visit  the  shrine 
at  Loretto ;  but  I  have  never  felt  more  poetical  devotion 
than  when  contemplating  the  old  Tower  and  the  little 
garden  at  Windsor,  and  musing  over  the  romantic  loves 
of  the  Lady  Jane  and  the  Eoyal  Poet  of  Scotland. 


THE   COUNTEY  CHUECH. 

A  gentleman  ! 
What,  o'  the  woolpack  ?  or  the  sugar-chest  ? 
Or  Ksts  of  velvet?  which  is't,  pound,  or  yard, 
You  vend  your  gentry  by  ? 

Beggar's  Bush. 

HEEE  are  few  places  more  favorable  to  tlie 
study  of  character  than  an  English  country 
church.  I  was  once  passing  a  few  weeks  at 
the  seat  of  a  friend,  who  resided  in  the  yicinity  of  one, 
the  appearance  of  which  particularly  struck  my  fancy. 
It  was  one  of  those  rich  morsels  of  quaint  antiquity 
which  give  such  a  peculiar  charm  to  English  landscape. 
It  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  country  filled  with  ancient 
families,  and  contained,  within  its  cold  and  silent  aisles, 
the  congregated  dust  of  many  noble  generations.  The 
interior  walls  were  incrusted  with  monuments  of  every 
age  and  style.  The  light  streamed  through  windows 
dimmed  with  armorial  bearings,  richly  emblazoned  in 
stained  glass.  In  various  parts  of  the  church  were 
tombs  of  knights,  and  high-born  dames,  of  gorgeous 
workmanship,  with  their  effigies  in  colored  marble.  On 
every  side   the   eye  was   struck  with  some   instance   of 

140 


TSE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.  141 

aspiring  mortality ;  some  hauglity  memorial  which  hu- 
man pride  had  erected  over  its  kindred  dust,  in  this 
temple  of  the  most  humble  of  all  religions. 

The  congregation  was  composed  of  the  neighboring 
people  of  rank,  who  sat  in  pews,  sumptuously  lined 
and  cushioned,  furnished  with  richly  -  gilded  prayer- 
books,  and  decorated  with  their  arms  upon  the  pew 
doors;  of  the  villagers  and  peasantry,  who  filled  the 
back  seats,  and  a  small  gallery  beside  the  organ ;  and 
of  the  poor  of  the  parish,  who  were  ranged  on  benches 
in  the  aisles. 

The  service  was  performed  by  a  snuffling  well-fed 
vicar,  who  had  a  snug  dwelling  near  the  church.  He 
was  a  privileged  guest  at  all  the  tables  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  had  been  the  keenest  fox-hunter  in  the 
country;  until  age  and  good  living  had  disabled  him 
from  doing  any  thing  more  than  ride  to  see  the  hounds 
throw  off,  and  make  one  at  the  hunting  dinner. 

Under  the  ministry  of  such  a  pastor,  I  found  it  impos- 
sible to  get  into  the  train  of  thought  suitable  to  the  time 
and  place  :  so,  having,  like  many  other  feeble  Christians, 
compromised  with  my  conscience,  by  laying  the  sin  of 
my  own  delinquency  at  another  person's  threshold,  I  oc- 
cupied myself  by  making  observations  on  my  neighbors. 

I  was  as  yet  a  stranger  in  England,  and  curious  to  no- 
tice the  manners  of  its  fashionable  classes.  I  found,  as 
usual,  that  there  was  the  least  pretension  where  there 
was  the  most  acknowledged  title  to  respect.     I  was  par- 


142  THE  SKETCHBOOK. 

ticularly  struck,  for  instance,  with  the  family  of  a  noble- 
man of  high  rank,  consisting  of  several  sons  and  daugh- 
ters. Nothing  could  be  more  simple  and  unassuming  than 
their  appearance.  They  generally  came  to  church  in  the 
plainest  equipage,  and  often  on  foot.  The  young  ladies 
would  stop  and  converse  in  the  kindest  manner  with  the 
peasantry,  caress  the  children,  and  listen  to  the  stories 
of  the  humble  cottagers.  Their  countenances  were  open 
and  beautifully  fair,  with  an  expression  of  high  refine- 
ment, but,  at  the  same  time,  a  frank  cheerfulness,  and 
an  engaging  affability.  Their  brothers  were  tall,  and 
elegantly  formed.  They  were  dressed  fashionably,  but 
simply;  with  strict  neatness  and  propriety,  but  without 
any  mannerism  or  foppishness.  Their  whole  demeanor 
was  easy  and  natural,  with  that  lofty  grace,  and  noble 
frankness,  which  bespeak  freeborn  souls  that  have  never 
been  checked  in  their  growth  by  feelings  of  inferiority. 
There  is  a  healthful  hardiness  about  real  dignity,  that 
never  dreads  contact  and  communion  with  others,  how- 
ever humble.  It  is  only  spurious  pride  that  is  morbid 
and  sensitive,  and  shrinks  from  every  touch.  I  was 
pleased  to  see  the  manner  in  which  they  would  con- 
verse with  the  peasantry  about  those  rural  concerns 
and  field-sports,  in  which  the  gentlemen  of  this  coun- 
try so  much  delight.  In  these  conversations  there  was 
neither  haughtiness  on  the  one  part,  nor  servility  on 
the  other;  and  you  were  only  reminded  of  the  differ- 
ence of  rank  by  the  habitual  respect  of  the  peasant. 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH  143 

In  contrast  to  these  was  the  family  of  a  wealthy  citi- 
zen, who  had  amassed  a  vast  fortune  ;  and,  having  pur- 
chased the  estate  and  mansion  of  a  ruined  nobleman  in 
the  neighborhood,  was  endeavoring  to  assume  all  the 
style  and  dignity  of  an  hereditary  lord  of  the  soil-  The 
family  always  came  to  church  en  prince.  They  were 
rolled  majestically  along  in  a  carriage  emblazoned  with 
arms.  The  crest  glittered  in  silver  radiance  from  every 
part  of  the  harness  where  a  crest  could  possibly  be 
placed.  A  fat  coachman,  in  a  three-cornered  hat,  richly 
laced,  and  a  flaxen  wig,  curling  close  round  his  rosy  face, 
was  seated  on  the  box,  with  a  sleek  Danish  dog  beside 
him.  Two  footmen,  in  gorgeous  liveries,  with  huge  bou- 
quets, and  gold-headed  canes,  lolled  behind.  The  carriage 
rose  and  sunk  on  its  long  springs  with  peculiar  state- 
liness  of  motion.  The  very  horses  champed  their  bits, 
arched  their  necks,  and  glanced  their  eyes  more  proudly 
than  common  horses ;  either  because  they  had  caught  a 
little  of  the  family  feeling,  or  were  reined  up  more  tightly 
than  ordinary. 

I  could  not  but  admire  the  style  with  which  this  splen- 
did pageant  was  brought  up  to  the  gate  of  the  church- 
yard. There  was  a  vast  effect  produced  at  the  turning 
of  an  angle  of  the  wall ; — a  great  smacking  of  the  whip, 
straining  and  scrambling  of  horses,  glistening  of  harness, 
and  flashing  of  wheels  through  gravel.  This  was  the  mo- 
ment of  triumph  and  vainglory  to  the  coachman.  The 
horses  were  urged  and  checked  until  they  were  fretted 


144  THE  SKETCH-BOOR. 

into  a  foam.  They  threw  out  their  feet  in  a  prancing 
trot,  dashing  about  pebbles  at  every  step.  The  crowd  of 
villagers  sauntering  quietly  to  church,  opened  precipi- 
tately to  the  right  and  left,  gaping  in  vacant  admiration. 
On  reaching  the  gate,  the  horses  were  pulled  up  with  a 
suddenness  that  produced  an  immediate  stop,  and  almost 
threw  them  on  their  haunches. 

There  was  an  extraordinary  hurry  of  the  footman  to 
alight,  pull  down  the  steps,  and  prepare  every  thing  for 
the  descent  on  earth  of  this  august  family.  The  old  citi- 
zen first  emerged  his  round  red  face  from  out  the  door, 
looking  about  him  with  the  pompous  air  of  a  man  accus- 
tomed to  rule  on  'Change,  and  shake  the  Stock  Market 
with  a  nod.  His  consort,  a  fine,  fleshy,  comfortable 
dame,  followed  him.  There  seemed,  I  must  confess,  but 
little  pride  in  her  composition.  She  was  the  picture  of 
broad,  honest,  vulgar  enjoyment.  The  world  went  well 
with  her ;  and  she  liked  the  world.  She  had  fine  clothes, 
a  fine  house,  a  fine  carriage,  fine  children,  every  thing 
was  fine  about  her :  it  was  nothing  but  driving  about,  and 
visiting  and  feasting.  Life  was  to  her  a  perpetual  revel ; 
it  was  one  long  Lord  Mayor's  day. 

Two  daughters  succeeded  to  this  goodly  couple.  They 
certainly  were  handsome  ;  but  had  a  supercilious  air, 
that  chilled  admiration,  and  disposed  the  spectator  to 
be  critical.  They  were  ultra-fashionable  in  dress ;  and, 
though  no  one  could  deny  the  richness  of  their  decora- 
tions,  yet  their   appropriateness   might  be    questioned 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.  145 

amidst  tlie  simplicity  of  a  country  church.  They  de- 
scended loftily  from  the  carriage,  and  moved  up  the  line 
of  peasantry  with  a  step  that  seemed  dainty  of  the  soil  it 
trod  on.  They  cast  an  excursive  glance  around,  that 
passed  coldly  over  the  burly  faces  of  the  peasantry,  until 
they  met  the  eyes  of  the  nobleman's  family,  when  their 
countenances  immediately  brightened  into  smiles,  and 
they  made  the  most  profound  and  elegant  courtesies, 
which  were  returned  in  a  manner  that  showed  they  were 
but  slight  acquaintances. 

I  must  not  forget  the  two  sons  of  this  aspiring  citizen, 
who  came  to  church  in  a  dashing  curricle,  with  outriders. 
They  were  arrayed  in  the  extremity  of  the  mode,  with  all 
that  pedantry  of  dress  which  marks  the  man  of  question- 
able pretensions  to  style.  They  kept  entirely  by  them- 
selves, eyeing  every  one  askance  that  came  near  them,  as 
if  measuring  his  claims  to  respectability ;  yet  they  were 
without  conversation,  except  the  exchange  of  an  occa- 
sional cant  phrase.  They  even  moved  artificially;  for 
their  bodies,  in  compliance  with  the  caprice  of  the  day, 
had  been  disciplined  into  the  absence  of  all  ease  and 
freedom.  Art  had  done  every  thing  to  accomplish  them 
as  men  of  fashion,  but  nature  had  denied  them  the  name- 
less grace.  They  were  vulgarly  shaped,  like  men  formed 
for  the  common  purposes  of  life,  and  had  that  air  of 
supercilious  assumption  which  is  never  seen  in  the  true 
gentleman. 

I  have  been  rather  minute  in  drawing  the  pictures  of 
10 


146  TEE  8EETGE.B00K, 

these  two  families,  because  I  considered  them  specimens 
of  what  is  often  to  be  met  with  in  this  country — the  un- 
pretending great,  and  the  arrogant  little.  I  have  no  re- 
spect for  titled  rank,  unless  it  be  accompanied  with  true 
nobility  of  soul;  but  I  have  remarked  in  all  countries 
where  artificial  distinctions  exist,  that  the  very  highest 
classes  are  always  the  most  courteous  and  unassuming. 
Those  who  are  well  assured  of  their  own  standing  are 
least  apt  to  trespass  on  that  of  others :  whereas  nothing 
is  so  offensive  as  the  aspirings  of  vulgarity,  which  thinks 
to  elevate  itself  by  humiliating  its  neighbor. 

As  I  have  brought  these  families  into  contrast,  I  must 
notice  their  behavior  in  church.  That  of  the  nobleman's 
family  was  quiet,  serious,  and  attentive.  Not  that  they 
appeared  to  have  any  fervor  of  devotion,  but  rather  a 
respect  for  sacred  things,  and  sacred  places,  inseparable 
from  good  breeding.  The  others,  on  the  contrary,  were 
in  a  perpetual  flutter  and  whisper  ;  they  betrayed  a  con- 
tinual consciousness  of  finery,  and  a  sorry  ambition  of 
being  the  wonders  of  a  rural  congregation. 

The  old  gentleman  was  the  only  one  really  attentive  to 
the  service.  He  took  the  whole  burden  of  family  devo- 
tion upon  himself,  standing  bolt  upright,  and  uttering 
the  responses  with  a  loud  voice  that  might  be  heard  all 
over  the  church.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  one  of  those 
thorough  church  and  king  men,  who  connect  the  idea  of 
devotion  and  loyalty ;  who  consider  the  Deity,  somehow 
or  other,  of  the  government  party,  and  religion  "  a  very 


TEE  COJJNTBY  CHURCH.  147 

excellent  sort  of  thing,  that  ought  to  be  countenanced 
and  kept  up." 

When  he  joined  so  loudly  in  the  service,  it  seemed 
more  by  way  of  example  to  the  lower  orders,  to  show 
them  that,  though  so  great  and  wealthy,  he  was  not 
above  being  religious ;  as  I  have  seen  a  turtle-fed  alder- 
man swallow  publicly  a  basin  of  charity  soup,  smack- 
ing his  lips  at  every  mouthful,  and  pronouncing  it  "  ex- 
cellent food  for  the  poor." 

"When  the  service  was  at  an  end,  I  was  curious  to 
witness  the  several  exits  of  my  groups.  The  young 
noblemen  ar&d  their  sisters,  as  the  day  was  fine,  pre- 
ferred strolUng  home  across  the  fields,  chatting  with 
the  country  people  as  they  went.  The  others  departed 
as  they  came,  in  grand  parade.  Again  were  the  equi- 
pages wheeled  up  to  the  gate.  There  was  again  the 
smacking  of  whips,  the  clattering  of  hoofs,  and  the  glit- 
tering of  harness.  The  horses  started  off  almost  at  a 
bound ;  the  villagers  again  hurried  to  right  and  left ; 
the  wheels  threw  up  a  cloud  of  dust;  and  the  aspiring 
family  was  rapt  out  of  sight  in  a  whirlwind. 


THE  WIDOW  AND   HEE   SON. 

Pittie  olde  age,  within  whose  silver  haires 
Honour  and  reverence  evermore  have  rain'd. 

MaKLOWE'S  TAMBimLAINB. 

HOSE  who  are  in  the  habit  of  remarking  such 
matters,  must  have  noticed  the  passive  quiet 
of  an  English  landscape  on  Sunday.  The  clack- 
ing of  the  mill,  the  regularly  recurring  stroke  of  the  flail, 
the  din  of  the  blacksmith's  hammer,  the  whistling  of  the 
ploughman,  the  rattling  of  the  cart,  and  all  other  sounds 
of  rural  labor  are  suspended.  The  very  farm  dogs  bark 
less  frequently,  being  less  disturbed  by  passing  travel- 
lers. At  such  times  I  have  almost  fancied  the  winds 
sunk  into  quiet,  and  that  the  sunny  landscape,  with  its 
fresh  green  tints  melting  into  blue  haze,  enjoyed  the 
hallowed  calm. 

Sweet  day,  so  pure,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky. 

Well  was  it  ordained  that  the  day  of  devotion  should  be 
a  day  of  rest.  The  holy  repose  which  reigns  over  the 
face  of  nature,  has  its  moral  influence ;  every  restless 
passion  is  charmed  down,  and  we  feel  the  natural  re- 

148 


TEE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON.  149 

ligion  of  the  soul  gently  springing  up  within  us.  For 
my  part,  there  are  feelings  that  visit  me,  in  a  country 
church,  amid  the  beautiful  serenity  of  nature,  which  I 
experience  nowhere  else ;  and  if  not  a  more  religious,  I 
think  I  am  a  better  man  on  Sunday  than  on  any  other 
day  of  the  seven. 

During  my  recent  residence  in  the  country,  I  used 
frequently  to  attend  at  the  old  village  church.  Its  shad- 
owy aisles ;  its  mouldering  monuments ;  its  dark  oaken 
panelling,  all  reverend  with  the  gloom  of  departed  years, 
seemed  to  fit  it  for  the  haunt  of  solemn  meditation ;  but 
being  in  a  wealthy  aristocratic  neighborhood,  the  glitter 
of  fashion  penetra,ted  even  into  the  sanctuary ;  and  I  felt 
myself  continually  thrown  back  upon  the  world  by  the 
frigidity  and  pomp  of  the  popr  worms  around  me.  The 
only  being  in  the  whole  congregation  who  appeared 
thoroughly  to  feel  the  humble  and  prostrate  piety  of  a 
true  Christian  was  a  poor  decrepit  old  woman,  bending 
under  the  weight  of  years  and  infirmities.  She  bore  the 
traces  of  something  better  than  abject  poverty.  The  lin- 
gerings  of  decent  pride  were  visible  in  her  appearance. 
Her  dress,  though  humble  in  the  extreme,  was  scrupu- 
lously clean.  Some  trivial  respect,  too,  had  been  awarded 
her,  for  she  did  not  take  her  seat  among  the  village  poor, 
but  sat  alone  on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  She  seemed  to 
have  survived  all  love,  all  friendship,  all  society ;  and  to 
have  nothing  left  her  but  the  hopes  of  heaven.  When 
I  saw  her  feebly  rising   and  bending  her  aged  form   in 


150  THE  8EETCE-B00K. 

prayer;  habitually  conning  her  prayer-book,  which  her 
palsied  hand  and  failing  eyes  would  not  permit  her  to 
read,  but  which  she  evidently  knew  by  heart ;  I  felt  per- 
suaded that  the  faltering  voice  of  that  poor  woman  arose 
to  heaven  far  before  the  responses  of  the  clerk,  the  swell 
of  the  organ,  or  the  chanting  of  the  choir. 

I  am  fond  of  loitering  about  country  churches,  and 
this  was  so  delightfully  situated,  that  it  frequently  at- 
tracted me.  It  stood  on  a  knoll,  round  which  a  small 
stream  made  a  beautiful  bend,  and  then  wound  its  way 
through  a  long  reach  of  soft  meadow  scenery.  The 
church  was  surrounded  by  yew-trees  which  seemed  al- 
most coeval  with  itself.  Its  tall  Gothic  spire  shot  up 
lightly  from  among  them,  with  rooks  and  crows  gener- 
ally wheeling  about  it.  I  was  seated  there  one  still 
sunny  morning,  watching  two  laborers  who  were  dig- 
ging a  grave.  They  had  chosen  one  of  the  most  remote 
and  neglected  corners  of  the  church-yard;  where,  from 
the  number  of  nameless  graves  around,  it  would  appear 
that  the  indigent  and  friendless  were  huddled  into  the 
earth.  I  was  told  that  the  new-made  grave  was  for  the 
only  son  of  a  poor  widow.  While  I  was  meditating  on 
the  distinctions  of  worldly  rank,  which  extend  thus  down 
into  the  very  dust,  the  toll  of  the  bell  announced  the  ap- 
proach of  the  funeral.  They  were  the  obsequies  of  pov- 
erty, with  which  pride  had  nothing  to  do.  A  coffin  of 
the  plainest  materials,  without  pall  or  other  covering, 
was  borne  by  some  of  the  villagers.     The  sexton  walked 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HEB  SOIT.  161 

before  with  an  air  of  cold  indifference.  There  were  no 
mock  mourners  in  the  trappings  of  affected  woe;  but 
there  was  one  real  mourner  who  feebly  tottered  after 
the  corpse.  It  was  the  aged  mother  of  the  deceased — 
the  poor  old  woman  whom  I  had  seen  seated  on  the 
steps  of  the  altar.  She  was  supported  by  a  humble 
friend,  who  was  endeavoring  to  comfort  her.  A  few  of 
the  neighboring  poor  had  joined  the  train,  and  some 
children  of  the  village  were  running  hand  in  hand,  now 
shouting  with  unthinking  mirth,  and  now  pausing  to 
gaze,  with  childish  curiosity,  on  the  grief  of  the  mourner. 

As  the  funeral  train  approached  the  grave,  the  parson 
issued  from  the  church  porch,  arrayed  in  the  surplice, 
with  prayer-book  in  hand,  and  attended  by  the  clerk. 
The  service,  however,  was  a  mere  act  of  charity.  The 
deceased  had  been  destitute,  and  the  survivor  was  pen- 
niless. It  was  shuffled  through,  therefore,  in  form,  but 
coldly  and  unfeelingly.  The  well-fed  priest  moved  but 
a  few  steps  from  the  church  door;  his  voice  could 
scarcely  be  heard  at  the  grave ;  and  never  did  I  hear 
the  funeral  service,  that  sublime  and  touching  ceremony, 
turned  into  such  a  frigid  mummery  of  words. 

I  approached  the  grave.  The  coffin  was  placed  on  the 
ground.  On  it  were  inscribed  the  name  and  age  of  the 
deceased — "  George  Somers,  aged  26  years."  The  poor 
mother  had  been  assisted  to  kneel  down  at  the  head  of 
it.  Her  withered  hands  were  clasped,  as  if  in  prayer, 
but  I  could  perceive  by  a  feeble  rocking  of  the  body, 


152  THE  SEETOH'BOOE, 

and  a  convulsive  motion  of  her  lips,  tliat  she  was  gazing 
on  the  last  relics  of  her  son,  with  the  yearnings  of  a 
mother's  heart. 

Preparations  were  made  to  deposit  the  coffin  in  the 
earth.  There  was  that  bustling  stir  which  breaks  so 
harshly  on  the  feelings  of  grief  and  affection ;  directions 
given  in  the  cold  tones  of  business :  the  striking  of  spades 
into  sand  and  gravel ;  which,  at  the  grave  of  those  we 
love,  is,  of  all  sounds,  the  most  withering.  The  bustle 
around  seemed  to  waken  the  mother  from  a  wretched 
reverie.  She  raised  her  glazed  eyes,  and  looked  about 
with  a  faint  wildness.  As  the  men  approached  with  cords 
to  lower  the  coffin  into  the  grave,  she  wrung  her  hands, 
and  broke  into  an  agony  of  grief.  The  poor  woman  who 
attended  her  took  her  by  the  arm,  endeavoring  to  raise 
her  from  the  earth,  and  to  whisper  something  like  con- 
solation— "  Nay,  now^ — nay,  now — don't  take  it  so  sorely 
to  heart."  She  could  only  shake  her  head  and  wring  her 
hands,  as  one  not  to  be  comforted. 

As  they  lowered  the  body  into  the  earth,  the  creaking 
of  the  cords  seemed  to  agonize  her ;  but  when^  on  some 
accidental  obstruction,  there  was  a  justling  of  the  coffin, 
all  the  tenderness  of  the  mother  burst  forth ;  as  if  any 
harm  could  come  to  him  who  was  far  beyond  the  reach 
of  worldly  suffering. 

I  could  see  no  more — my  heart  swelled  into  my  throat 
— my  eyes  filled  with  tears — I  felt  as  if  I  were  acting  a 
barbarous  part  in  standing  by,  and  gazing  idly  on  this 


TEE  WIDOW  AND  EEB  SON.  153 

scene  of  maternal  anguish.  I  wandered  to  another  part 
of  the  churchyard,  where  I  remained  until  the  funeral 
train  had  dispersed. 

When  I  saw  the  mother  slowly  and  painfully  quitting 
the  grave,  leaving  behind  her  the  remains  of  all  that  was 
dear  to  her  on  earth,  and  returning  to  silence  and  desti- 
tution, my  heart  ached  for  her.  What,  thought  I,  are 
the  distresses  of  the  rich !  they  have  friends  to  soothe — 
pleasures  to  beguile — a  world  to  divert  and  dissipate 
their  griefs.  What  are  the  sorrows  of  the  young !  Their 
growing  minds  soon  close  above  the  wound — their  elastic 
spirits  soon  rise  beneath  the  pressure — their  green  and 
ductile  affections  soon  twine  round  new  objects.  But  the 
sorrows  of  the  poor,  who  have  no  outward  appliances  to 
soothe — the  sorrows  of  the  aged,  with  whom  life  at  best 
is  but  a  wintry  day,  and  who  can  look  for  no  after-growth 
of  joy — the  sorrows  of  a  widow,  aged,  solitary,  destitute, 
mourning  over  an  only  son,  the  last  solace  of  her  years ; 
these  are  indeed  sorrows  which  make  us  feel  the  impo- 
tency  of  consolation. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  left  the  church-yard.  On 
my  way  homeward  I  met  with  the  woman  who  had  acted 
as  comforter :  she  was  just  returning  from  accompanying 
the  mother  to  her  lonely  habitation,  and  I  drew  from  her 
some  particulars  connected  with  the  affecting  scene  I  had 
witnessed. 

The  parents  of  the  deceased  had  resided  in  the  village 
from  childhood.     They  had  inhabited  one  of  the  neatest 


154  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

cottages,  and  by  various  rural  occupations,  and  the 
assistance  of  a  small  garden,  had  supported  themselves 
creditably  and  comfortably,  and  led  a  happy  and  a  blame- 
less life.  They  had  one  son,  who  had  grown  up  to  be  the 
staff  and  pride  of  their  age. — "  Oh,  sir !  "  said  the  good 
woman,  *'  he  was  such  a  comely  lad,  so  sweet-tempered, 
so  kind  to  every  one  around  him,  so  dutiful  to  his 
parents !  It  did  one's  heart  good  to  see  him  of  a  Sunday, 
dressed  out  in  his  best,  so  tall,  so  straight,  so  cheery, 
supporting  his  old  mother  to  church — for  she  was  always 
fonder  of  leaning  on  George's  arm,  than  on  her  good 
man's ;  and,  poor  soul,  she  might  well  be  proud  of  him, 
for  a  finer  lad  there  was  not  in  the  country  round." 

Unfortunately,  the  son  was  tempted,  during  a  year  of 
scarcity  and  agricultural  hardship,  to  enter  into  the  ser- 
vice of  one  of  the  small  craft  that  plied  on  a  neighboring 
river.  He  had  not  been  long  in  this  employ  when  he  was 
entrapped  by  a  press-gang,  and  carried  off  to  sea.  His 
parents  received  tidings  of  his  seizure,  but  beyond  that 
they  could  learn  nothing.  It  was  the  loss  of  their  main 
prop.  The  father,  who  was  already  infirm,  grew  heart- 
less and  melancholy,  and  sunk  into  his  grave.  The 
widow,  left  lonely  in  her  age  and  feebleness,  could  no 
longer  support  herself,  and  came  upon  the  parish.  Still 
there  was  a  kind  feeling  toward  her  throughout  the  vil- 
lage, and  a  certain  respect  as  being  one  of  the  oldest  in- 
habitants. As  no  one  applied  for  the  cottage,  in  which 
she  had  passed  so  many  happy  days,  she  was  permitted 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON.  155 

to  remain  in  it,  where  she  lived  solitary  and  almost  help- 
less. The  few  wants  of  nature  were  chiefly  supplied 
from  the  scanty  productions  of  her  little  garden,  which 
the  neighbors  would  now  and  then  cultivate  for  her.  It 
was  but  a  few  days  before  the  time  at  which  these  cir- 
cumstances were  told  me,  that  she  was  gathering  some 
vegetables  for  her  repast,  when  she  heard  the  cottage  door 
which  faced  the  garden  suddenly  opened.  A  stranger 
came  out,  and  seemed  to  be  looking  eagerly  and  wildly 
around.  He  was  dressed  in  seaman's  clothes,  was  emaci- 
ated and  ghastly  pale,  and  bore  the  air  of  one  broken  by 
sickness  and  hardships.  He  saw  her,  and  hastened  to- 
wards her,  but  his  steps  were  faint  and  faltering;  he 
sank  on  his  knees  before  her,  and  sobbed  like  a  child. 
The  poor  woman  gazed  upon,  him  with  a  vacant  and  wan- 
dering eye  —  "Oh,  my  dear,  dear  mother!  don't  you 
know  your  son?  your  poor  boy,  George  ?  "  It  was  indeed 
the  wreck  of  her  once  noble  lad,  who,  shattered  by 
wounds,  by  sickness  and  foreign  imprisonment,  had,  at 
length,  dragged  his  wasted  limbs  homeward,  to  repose 
among  the  scenes  of  his  childhood. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  detail  the  particulars  of  such  a 
meeting,  where  joy  and  sorrow  were  so  completely 
blended :  still  he  was  alive !  he  was  come  home !  he 
might  yet  live  to  comfort  and  cherish  her  old  age !  Na- 
ture, however,  was  exhausted  in  him ;  and  if  any  thing 
had  been  wanting  to  finish  the  work  of  fate,  the  desola- 
tion of  his  native  cottage  would  have  been  sufficient.     He 


156  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

stretched  himself  on  the  pallet  on  which  his  widowed 
mother  had  passed  many  a  sleepless  night,  and  he  never 
rose  from  it  again. 

The  villagers,  when  they  heard  that  George  Somers 
had  returned,  crowded  to  see  him,  offering  every  comfort 
and  assistance  that  their  humble  means  afforded.  He 
was  too  weak,  however,  to  talk — he  could  only  look 
his  thanks.  His  mother  was  his  constant  attendant ; 
and  he  seemed  unwilling  to  be  helped  by  any  other 
hand. 

There  is  something  in  sickness  that  breaks  down  the 
pride  of  manhood  ;  that  softens  the  heart,  and  brings 
it  back  to  the  feelings  of  infancy.  Who  that  has  lan- 
guished, even  in  advanced  life,  in  sickness  and  despon- 
dency ;  who  that  has  pined  on  a  weary  bed  in  the  neglect 
and  loneliness  of  a  foreign  land ;  but  has  thought  on  the 
mother  "that  looked  on  his  childhood,"  that  smoothed 
his  pillow,  and  administered  to  his  helplessness  ?  Oh ! 
there  is  an  enduring  tenderness  in  the  love  of  a  mother 
to  her  son  that  transcends  all  other  affections  of  the 
heart.  It  is  neither  to  be  chilled  by  selfishness,  nor 
daunted  by  danger,  nor  weakened  by  worthlessness,  nor 
stifled  by  ingratitude.  She  will  sacrifice  every  comfort  to 
his  convenience  ;  she  will  surrender  every  pleasure  to  his 
enjoyment ;  she  will  glory  in  his  fame,  and  exult  in  his 
prosperity : — and,  if  misfortune  overtake  him,  he  will  be 
the  dearer  to  her  from  misfortune  ;  and  if  disgrace  settle 
upon  his  name,  she  will  still  love  and  cherish  him  in 


TEE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON.  157 

spite  of  his  disgrace ;  and  if  all  the  world  beside  cast  him 
off,  she  will  be  all  the  world  to  him. 

Poor  George  Somers  had  known  what  it  was  to  be  in 
sickness,  and  none  to  soothe — lonely  and  in  prison,  and 
none  to  visit  him.  He  could  not  endure  his  mother  from 
his  sight ;  if  she  moved  away,  his  eye  would  follow  her. 
She  would  sit  for  hours  by  his  bed,  watching  him  as  he 
slept.  Sometimes  he  would  start  from  a  feverish  dream, 
and  look  anxiously  up  until  he  saw  her  bending  over 
him ;  when  he  would  take  her  hand,  lay  it  on  his  bosom, 
and  fall  asleep,  with  the  tranquillity  of  a  child.  In  this 
way  he  died. 

My  first  impulse  on  hearing  this  humble  tale  of  afflic- 
tion was  to  visit  the  cottage  of  the  mourner,  and  admin- 
ister pecuniary  assistance,  ^nd,  if  possible,  comfort.  I 
found,  however,  on  inquiry,  that  the  good  feelings  of  the 
villagers  had  prompted  them  to  do  every  thing  that  the 
case  admitted :  and  as  the  poor  know  best  how  to  console 
each  other's  sorrows,  I  did  not  venture  to  intrude. 

The  next  Sunday  I  was  at  the  village  church  ;  when,  to 
my  surprise,  I  saw  the  poor  old  woman  tottering  down 
the  aisle  to  her  accustomed  seat  on  the  steps  of  the  altar. 

She  had  made  an  effort  to  put  on  something  like 
mourning  for  her  son ;  and  nothing  could  be  more  touch- 
ing than  this  struggle  between  pious  affection  and  utter 
poverty  :  a  black  ribbon  or  so — a  faded  black  handker- 
chief, and  one  or  two  more  such  humble  attempts  to  ex- 
press by   yutward  signs  that  grief  which  passes  show. 


158  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

When  I  looked  round  upon  the  storied  monuments,  the 
stately  hatchments,  the  cold  marble  pomp,  with  which 
grandeur  mourned  magnificently  over  departed  pride,  and 
turned  to  this  poor  widow,  bowed  down  by  age  and  sor- 
row, at  the  altar  of  her  God,  and  offering  up  the  prayers 
and  praises  of  a  pious,  though  a  broken  heart,  I  felt  that 
this  living  monument  of  real  grief  was  worth  them  all. 

I  related  her  story  to  some  of  the  wealthy  members  of 
the  congregation,  and  they  were  moved  by  it.  They  ex- 
erted themselves  to  render  her  situation  more  comfort- 
able, and  to  lighten  her  afflictions.  It  was,  however, 
but  smoothing  a  few  steps  to  the  grave.  In  the  course  of 
a  Sunday  or  two  after,  she  was  missed  from  her  usual 
seat  at  church,  and  before  I  left  the  neighborhood,  I 
heard,  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction,  that  she  had  quietly 
breathed  her  last,  and  had  gone  to  rejoin  those  she  loved, 
in  that  world  where  sorrow  is  never  known,  and  friends 
are  never  parted. 


t^^*^^1-^r  ^^^^^^--i^r^^.^    ^^J 


A    SUNDAY    IN    LONDON.* 

N  a  preceding  paper  I  have  spoken  of  an  Eng- 
lish Sunday  in  the  country,  and  its  tranquilliz- 
ing effect  upon  the  landscape  ;  but  where  is  its 
sacred  influence  more  strikingly  apparent  than  in  the 
very  heart  of  that  great  Babel,  London?  On  this  sa- 
cred day,  the  gigantic  monster  is  charmed  into  repose. 
The  intolerable  din  and  struggle  of  the  week  are  at  an 
end.  The  shops  are  shut.  The  fires  of  forges  and  man- 
ufactories are  extinguished ;  and  the  sun,  no  longer  ob- 
scured by  murky  clouds  of  smoke,  pours  down  a  sober, 
yellow  radiance  into  the  quiet  streets.  The  few  pedes- 
trians we  meet,  instead  of  hurrying  forward  with  anxious 
countenances,  move  leisurely  along;  their  brows  are 
smoothed  from  the  wrinkles  of  business  and  care ;  they 
have  put  on  their  Sunday  looks,  and  Sunday  manners, 
with  their  Sunday  clothes,  and  are  cleansed  in  mind  as 
well  as  in  person. 

And  now  the  melodious  clangor  of  bells  from  church 
towers  summons  their  several  flocks  to  the  fold.  Forth 
issues  from  his  mansion  the  family  of  the  decent  trades- 

♦  Part  of  a  sketch  omitted  in  the  preceding  editions. 

159 


160  TBE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

man,  the  small  children  in  the  advance ;  then  the  citizen 
and  his  comely  spouse,  followed  by  the  grown-up  daugh- 
ters, with  small  morocco-bound  prayer-books  laid  in  the 
folds  of  their  pocket-handkerchiefs.  The  housemaid 
looks  after  them  from  the  window,  admiring  the  finery 
of  the  family,  and  receiving,  perhaps,  a  nod  and  smile 
from  her  young  mistresses,  at  whose  toilet  she  has 
assisted. 

Now  rumbles  along  the  carriage  of  some  magnate  of 
the  city,  peradventure  an  alderman  or  a  sheriff;  and 
now  the  patter  of  many  feet  announces  a  procession  of 
charity  scholars,  in  uniforms  of  antique  cut,  and  each 
with  a  prayer-book  under  his  arm. 

The  ringing  of  bells  is  at  an  end;  the  rumbling  of 
the  carriage  has  ceased;  the  pattering  of  feet  is  heard 
no  more  ;  the  flocks  are  folded  in  ancient  churches, 
cramped  up  in  by-lanes  and  corners  of  the  crowded 
city,  where  the  vigilant  beadle  keeps  watch,  like  the 
shepherd's  dog,  round  the  threshold  of  the  sanctuary. 
For  a  time  every  thing  is  hushed;  but  soon  is  heard 
the  deep,  pervading  sound  of  the  organ,  rolling  and 
vibrating  through  the  empty  lanes  and  courts;  and  the 
sweet  chanting  of  the  choir  making  them  resound  with 
melody  and  praise.  Never  have  I  been  more  sensible 
of  the  sanctifying  effect  of  church  music,  than  when 
I  have  heard  it  thus  poured  forth,  like  a  river  of  joy, 
through  the  inmost  recesses  of  this  great  metropolis, 
elevating  it,  as  it  were,  from   all  the  sordid  pollutions 


A  SUNDAY  IN  LONDON^  161 

of  the  week ;   and  bearing  the  poor  world-worn  soul  on 
a  tide  of  triumphant  harmony  to  heaven. 

The  morning  service  is  at  an  end.  The  streets  are 
again  alive  with  the  congregations  returning  to  their 
homes,  but  soon  again  relapse  into  silence.  Now  comes 
on  the  Sunday  dinner,  which,  to  the  city  tradesman,  is 
a  meal  of  some  importance.  There  is  more  leisure  for 
social  enjoyment  at  the  board.  Members  of  the  family 
can  now  gather  together,  who  are  separated  by  the  la- 
borious occupations  of  the  week.  A  school-boy  may  be 
permitted  on  that  day  to  come  to  the  paternal  home ; 
an  old  friend  of  the  family  takes  his  accustomed  Sun- 
day seat  at  the  board,  tells  over  his  well-known  stories, 
and  rejoices  young  and  old  with  his  well-known  jokes. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  the  city  pours  forth  its  legions 
to  breathe  the  fresh  air  and  enjoy  the  sunshine  of  the 
parks  and  rural  environs.  Satirists  may  say  what  they 
please  about  the  rural  enjoyments  of  a  London  citizen 
on  Sunday,  but  to  me  there  is  something  delightful  in 
beholding  the  poor  prisoner  of  the  crowded  and  dusty 
city  enabled  thus  to  come  forth  once  a  week  and  throw 
himself  upon  the  green  bosom  of  nature.  He  is  like  a 
child  restored  to  the  mother's  breast;  and  they  who 
first  spread  out  these  noble  parks  and  magnificent 
pleasure-grounds  which  surround  this  huge  metropo- 
lis, have  done  at  least  as  much  for  its  health  and 
morality,  as  if  they  had  expended  the  amount  of  cost 
*»  hospitals,  prisons,  and  penitentiaries, 
11 


THE  BOAR'S  HEAD  TAVERN,  EASTCHEAP 

A  SHAKSPEARIAN  RESEARCH. 

"A  tavern  is  the  rendezvous,  the  exchange,  the  staple  of  good  fellows.  1 
have  heard  my  great-grandfather  tell,  how  his  great-great-grandfather  should 
say,  that  it  was  an  old  proverb  when  his  great-grandfather  was  a  child,  that 
' it  was  a  good  wind  that  blew  a  man  to  the  wine.'  " 

Mother  Bombie. 

T  is  a  pious  custom,  in  some  Catholic  countries, 
to  honor  the  memory  of  saints  by  votive  lights 
burnt  before  their  pictures.  The  popularity  of 
a  saint,  therefore,  may  be  known  by  the  number  of  these 
offerings.  One,  perhaps,  is  left  to  moulder  in  the  dark- 
ness of  his  little  chapel;  another  may  have  a  solitary 
lamp  to  throw  its  blinking  rays  athwart  his  effigy ;  while 
the  whole  blaze  of  adoration  is  lavished  at  the  shrine  of 
some  beatified  father  of  renown.  The  wealthy  devotee 
brings  his  huge  luminary  of  wax;  the  eager  zealot  his 
seven-branched  candlestick,  and  even  the  mendicant  pil- 
grim is  by  no  means  satisfied  that  sufficient  light  is 
thrown  upon  the  deceased,  unless  he  hangs  up  his  little 
lamp  of  smoking  oil.  The  consequence  is,  that  in  the 
eagerness  to  enlighten,  they  are  often  apt  to  obscure ; 
and  I  have  occasionally  seen  an  unlucky  saint  almost 

163 


THE  BOAR'S  HEAD   TAVERN,  163 

smoked  out  of  countenance  by  the  officiousness  of  his 
followers. 

In  like  manner  has  it  fared  vvith  the  immortal  Shak- 
speare.  Every  writer  considers  it  his  bounden  duty  to 
light  up  some  portion  of  his  character  or  works,  and  to 
rescue  some  merit  from  oblivion.  The  commentator, 
opulent  in  words,  produces  vast  tomes  of  dissertations ; 
the  common  herd  of  editors  send  up  mists  of  obscurity 
from  their  notes  at  the  bottom  of  each  page ;  and  every 
casual  scribbler  brings  his  farthing  rushlight  of  eulogy 
or  research,  to  swell  the  cloud  of  incense  and  of  smoke. 

As  I  honor  all  established  usages  of  my  brethren  of  the 
quill,  I  thought  it  but  proper  to  contribute  my  mite  of 
homage  to  the  memory  of  the  illustrious  bard.  I  was  for 
some  time,  however,  sorely  ptizzled  in  what  way  I  should 
discharge  this  duty.  I  found  myself  anticipated  in  every 
attempt  at  a  new  reading ;  every  doubtful  line  had  been 
explained  a  dozen  different  ways,  and  perplexed  beyond 
the  reach  of  elucidation;  and  as  to  fine  passages,  they 
had  all  been  amply  praised  by  previous  admirers ;  nay, 
so  completely  had  the  bard,  of  late,  been  overlarded  with 
panegyric  by  a  great  German  critic,  that  it  was  difficult 
now  to  find  even  a  fault  that  had  not  been  argued  into  a 
beauty. 

In  this  perplexity,  I  was  one  morning  turning  over  his 
pages,  when  I  casually  opened  upon  the  comic  scenes  of 
Henry  lY.,  and  was,  in  a  moment,  completely  lost  in  the 
madcap  revelry  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern.    So  vividly 


164  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  naturally  are  these  scenes  of  humor  depicted,  and 
with  such  force  and  consistency  are  the  characters  sus- 
tained, that  they  become  mingled  up  in  the  mind  with 
the  facts  and  personages  of  real  life.  To  few  readers 
does  it  occur,  that  these  are  all  ideal  creations  of  a  poet's 
brain,  and  that,  in  sober  truth,  no  such  knot  of  merry 
roysters  ever  enlivened  the  dull  neighborhood  of  East- 
cheap. 

For  my  part  I  love  to  give  myself  up  to  the  illusions  of 
poetry.  A  hero  of  fiction  that  never  existed  is  just  as 
valuable  to  me  as  a  hero  of  history  that  existed  a  thou- 
sand years  since  :  and,  if  I  may  be  excused  such  an  insen- 
sibility to  the  common  ties  of  human  nature,  I  would  not 
give  up  fat  Jack  for  half  the  great  men  of  ancient  chroni- 
cle. What  have  the  heroes  of  yore  done  for  me,  or  men 
like  me  ?  They  have  conquered  countries  of  which  I  do 
not  enjoy  an  acre  ;  or  they  have  gained  laurels  of  which 
I  do  not  inherit  a  leaf ;  or  they  have  furnished  examples 
of  hair-brained  prowess,  which  I  have  neither  the  oppor- 
tunity nor  the  inclination  to  follow.  But,  old  Jack  Fal- 
staff! — kind  Jack  Falstaff! — sweet  Jack  Falstaff! — has 
enlarged  the  boundaries  of  human  enjoyment :  he  has 
added  vast  regions  of  wit  and  good  humor,  in  which  the 
poorest  man  may  revel;  and  has  bequeathed  a  never- 
failing  inheritance  of  jolly  laughter,  to  make  mankind 
merrier  and  better  to  the  latest  posterity. 

A  thought  suddenly  struck  me  :  "I  will  make  a  pil- 
grimage to  Eastcheap,"  said  I,  closing  the  book,  "  and 


TBE  BOAR'S  READ  TAVERN.  165 

see  if  the  old  Boar's  Head  Tavern  still  exists.  Who 
knows  but  I  may  light  upon  some  legendary  traces  of 
Dame  Quickly  and  her  guests  ;  at  any  rate,  there  will  be 
a  kindred  pleasure,  in  treading  the  halls  once  vocal  with 
their  mirth,  to  that  the  toper  enjoys  in  smelling  to  the 
empty  cask  once  filled  with  generous  wine." 

The  resolution  was  no  sooner  formed  than  put  in  exe- 
cution. I  forbear  to  treat  of  the  various  adventures  and 
wonders  I  encountered  in  my  travels;  of  the  haunted 
regions  of  Cock  Lane  ;  of  the  faded  glories  of  Little  Brit- 
ain, and  the  parts  adjacent ;  what  perils  I  ran  in  Cateaton- 
street  and  old  Jewry ;  of  the  renowned  Guildhall  and  its 
two  stunted  giants,  the  pride  and  wonder  of  the  city,  and 
the  terror  of  all  unlucky  urchins ;  and  how  I  visited  Lon- 
don Stone,  and  struck  my  s1;aff  upon  it,  in  imitation  of 
that  arch  rebel,  Jack  Cade. 

Let  it  suffice  to  say,  that  I  at  length  arrived  in  merry 
Eastcheap,  that  ancient  region  of  wit  and  wassail,  where 
the  very  names  of  the  streets  relished  of  good  cheer,  as 
Pudding  Lane  bears  testimony  even  at  the  present  day. 
For  Eastcheap,  says  old  Stowe,  "  was  alv/ays  famous  for 
its  convivial  doings.  The  cookes  cried  hot  ribbes  of  beef 
roasted,  pies  well  baked,  and  other  victuals :  there  was 
clattering  of  pewter  pots,  harpe,  pipe,  and  sawtrie." 
Alas !  how  sadly  is  the  scene  changed  since  the  roaring 
days  of  Falstaff  and  old  Stowe  !  The  madcap  royster  has 
given  place  to  the  plodding  tradesman ;  the  clattering  of 
pots  and  the  sound  of  "harpe  and  sawtrie,"  to  the  din  of 


166  THE  SKETCHBOOK, 

carts  and  the  accursed  dinging  of  tlie  dustman's  bell ;  and 
no  song  is  heard,  save,  haply,  the  strain  of  some  siren  from 
Billingsgate,  chanting  the  eulogy  of  deceased  mackerel. 

I  sought,  in  vain,  for  the  ancient  abode  of  Dame 
Quickly.  The  only  relic  of  it  is  a  boar's  head,  carved  in 
relief  in  stone,  which  formerly  served  as  the  sign,  but  at 
present  is  built  into  the  parting  line  of  two  houses,  which 
stand  on  the  site  of  the  renowned  old  tavern. 

For  the  history  of  this  little  abode  of  good  fellowship, 
I  was  referred  to  a  tallow-chandler's  widow,  opposite, 
who  had  been  born  and  brought  up  on  the  spot,  and  was 
looked  up  to  as  the  indisputable  chronicler  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. I  found  h^r  seated  in  a  little  back  parlor,  the 
window  of  which  looked  out  upon  a  yard  about  eight  feet 
square,  laid  out  as  a  flower-garden ;  while  a  glass  door 
opposite  aftorded  a  distant  peep  of  the  street,  through  a 
vista  of  soap  and  tallow  candles  :  the  two  views,  which 
comprised,  in  all  probability,  her  prospects  in  life,  and 
the  little  world  in  which  she  had  lived,  and  moved,  and 
had  her  being,  for  the  better  part  of  a  century. 

To  be  versed  in  the  history  of  Eastcheap,  great  and 
little,  from  London  Stone  even  unto  the  Monument,  was 
doubtless,  in  her  opinion,  to  be  acquainted  with  the  his- 
tory of  the  universe.  Yet,  with  all  this,  she  possessed 
the  simplicity  of  true  wisdom,  and  that  liberal  communi- 
cative disposition,  which  I  have  generally  remarked  in 
intelligent  old  ladies,  knowing  in  the  concerns  of  their 
neighborhood. 


THE  BOAR'S  HEAD   TAVERN.  167 

Her  information,  however,  did  not  extend  far  back  into 
antiquity.  She  could  throw  no  light  upon  the  history  of 
the  Boar's  Head,  from  the  time  that  Dame  Quickly  es- 
poused the  valiant  Pistol,  until  the  great  fire  of  London, 
when  it  was  unfortunately  burnt  down.  It  was  soon  re- 
built, and  continued  to  flourish  under  the  old  name  and 
sign,  until  a  dying  landlord,  struck  with  remorse  for  dou- 
ble scores,  bad  measures,  and  other  iniquities,  which  are 
incident  to  the  sinful  race  of  publicans,  endeavored  to 
make  his  peace  with  heaven,  by  bequeathing  the  tavern 
to  St.  Michael's  Church,  Crooked  Lane,  towards  the  sup- 
porting of  a  chaplain.  For  some  time  the  vestry  meetings 
were  regularly  held  there ;  but  it  was  observed  that  the 
old  Boar  never  held  up  his  head  under  church  govern- 
ment. He  gradually  declined,  and  finally  gave  his  last 
gasp  about  thirty  years  since.  The  tavern  was  then 
turned  into  shops  ;  but  she  informed  me  that  a  picture 
of  it  was  still  preserved  in  St.  Michael's  Church,  which 
stood  just  in  the  rear.  To  get  a  sight  of  this  picture  was 
now  my  determination  ;  so,  having  informed  myself  of  the 
abode  of  the  sexton,  I  took  my  leave  of  the  venerable 
chronicler  of  Eastcheap,  my  visit  having  doubtless  raised 
greatly  her  opinion  of  her  legendary  lore,  and  furnished 
an  important  incident  in  the  history  of  her  life. 

It  cost  me  some  difficulty,  and  much  curious  inquiry, 
to  ferret  out  the  humble  hanger-on  to  the  church.  I  had 
to  explore  Crooked  Lane,  and  diverse  little  alleys,  and 
elbows,  and  dark  passages,  with  which  this  old  city  is 


168  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

perforated,  like  an  ancient  cheese,  or  a  worm-eaten  chest 
of  drawers.  At  length  I  traced  him  to  a  corner  of  a 
small  court  surrounded  by  lofty  houses,  where  the  in- 
habitants enjoy  about  as  much  of  the  face  of  heaven,  as  a 
community  of  frogs  at  the  bottom  of  a  well. 

The  sexton  was  a  meek,  acquiescing  little  man,  of  a 
bowing,  lowly  habit :  yet  he  had  a  pleasant  twinkling  in 
his  eye,  and,  if  encouraged,  would  now  and  then  hazard  a 
small  pleasantry ;  such  as  a  man  of  his  low  estate  might 
venture  to  make  in  the  company  of  high  churchwardens, 
and  other  mighty  men  of  the  earth.  I  found  him  in  com- 
pany with  the  deputy  organist,  seated  apart,  like  Milton's 
angels,  discoursing,  no  doubt,  on  high  doctrinal  points, 
a-nd  settling  the  affairs  of  the  church  over  a  friendly  pot 
of  ale — for  the  lower  classes  of  English  seldom  deliber- 
ate on  any  weighty  matter  without  the  assistance  of  a 
bool  tankard  to  clear  their  understandings.  I  arrived  at 
the  moment  when  they  had  finished  their  ale  and  their 
argument,  and  were  about  to  repair  to  the  church  to  put 
it  in  order  ;  so  having  made  known  my  wishes,  I  received 
their  gracious  permission  to  accompany  them. 

The  church  of  St,  Michael's,  Crooked  Lane,  standing 
a  short  distance  from  Billingsgate,  is  enriched  with  the 
tombs  of  many  fishmongers  of  renown;  and  as  every 
profession  has  its  galaxy  of  glory,  and  its  constellation 
of  great  men,  I  presume  the  monument  of  a  mighty 
fishmonger  of  the  olden  time  is  regarded  with  as  much 
reverence  by  succeeding  generations  of  the  craft,  as  poets 


TRJS  BOAE'S  READ   TAVEEjy.  169 

feel  on  contemplating  the  tomb  of  Yirgil,  or  soldiers  the 
monument  of  a  Marlborough  or  Turenne. 

I  cannot  but  turn  aside,  while  thus  speaking  of  illus- 
trious men,  to  observe  that  St.  Michael's,  Crooked  Lane, 
contains  also  the  ashes  of  that  doughty  champion,  Wil- 
liam Walworth,  knight,  who  so  manfully  clove  down  the 
sturdy  wight,  Wat  Tyler,  in  Smithfield ;  a  hero  worthy 
of  honorable  blazon,  as  almost  the  only  Lord  Mayor 
on  record  famous  for  deeds  of  arms: — the  sovereigns 
of  Cockney  being  generally  renowned  as  the  most  pacific 
of  all  potentates. '^ 

*  The  following  was  the  ancient  inscription  on  the  monument  of  this 
worthy ;  which,  unhappily,  was  destroyed  in  the  great  conflagration. 

Hereunder  lyth  a  man  of  Fame, 
William  Walworth  callyd  by  name  ; 
Fishmonger  he  was  in  lyfftime  here, 
And  twise  Lord  Maior.  as  in  books  appere  ; 
Who,  with  courage  stout  and  manly  myght, 
Slew  Jack  Straw  in  K}Tig  Richard's  sight. 
For  which  act  done,  and  trew  entent, 
The  Kyng  made  him  knyght  incontinent; 
And  gave  him  armes,  as  here  you  see, 
To  declare  his  fact  and  chivaldrie. 
He  left  this  lyff  the  yere  of  our  God 
Thirteen  hundred  fourscore  and  three  odd. 

An  error  in  the  foregoing  inscription  has  been  corrected  by  the  vener- 
able Stowe.  "Whereas,"  saith  he,  "it  hath  been  far  spread  abroad  by 
vulgar  opinion,  that  the  rebel  smitten  down  so  manfully  by  Sir  William 
Walworth,  the  then  worthy  Lord  Maior,  was  named  Jack  Straw,  and  not 
Wat  Tyler,  I  thought  good  to  reconcile  this  rash-conceived  doubt  by  such 
testimony  as  I  find  in  ancient  and  good  records.  The  principal  leaders,  or 
captains,  of  the  commons,  were  Wat  Tyler,  as  the  first  man ;  the  second 
was  John,  or  Jack,  Straw,"  etc.,  etc. 

Stowe's  London, 


170  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Adjoining  the  church,  in  a  small  cemetery,  immedi- 
tely  under  the  back  window  of  what  was  once  the  Boar's 
Head,  stands  the  tombstone  of  Eobert  Preston,  whilom 
drawer  at  the  tavern.  It  is  now  nearly  a  century  since 
this  trusty  drawer  of  good  liquor  closed  his  bustling 
career,  and  was  thus  quietly  deposited  within  call  of 
his  customers.  As  I  was  clearing  away  the  weeds  from 
his  epitaph,  the  little  sexton  drew  me  on  one  side  with 
a  mysterious  air,  and  informed  me  in  a  low  voice,  that 
once  upon  a  time,  on  a  dark  wintry  night,  when  the  wind 
was  unruly,  howling,  and  whistling,  banging  about  doors 
and  windows,  and  twirling  weathercocks,  so  that  the  liv- 
ing were  frightened  out  of  their  beds,  and  even  the  dead 
could  not  sleep  quietly  in  their  graves,  the  ghost  of  hon- 
est Preston,  which  happened  to  be  airing  itself  in  the 
church-yard,  was  attracted  by  the  well-known  call  of 
"waiter"  from  the  Boar's  Head,  and  made  its  sudden 
appearance  in  the  midst  of  a  roaring  club,  just  as  the 
parish  clerk  was  singing  a  stave  from  the  "  mirre  gar- 
land of  Captain  Death ; "  to  the  discomfiture  of  sundry 
train-band  captains,  and  the  conversion  of  an  infidel 
attorney,  who  became  a  zealous  Christian  on  the  spot, 
and  was  never  known  to  twist  the"  truth  afterwards, 
except  in  the  way  of  business. 

I  beg  it  may  be  remembered,  that  I  do  not  pledge 
myself  for  the  authenticity  of  this  anecdote ;  though 
it  is  well  known  that  the  church-yards  and  by-corners 
of  this  old  metropolis  are  very  much  infested  with  per- 


TEE  BOAB'8  HEAD   TAVEES.  171 

turbed  spirits ;  and  every  one  must  have  heard  of  the 
Cock  Lane  ghost,  and  the  apparition  that  guards  the 
regalia  in  the  Tower,  which  has  frightened  so  many 
bold  sentinels  almost  out  of  their  wits. 

Be  all  this  as  it  may,  this  Eobert  Preston  seems  to 
have  been  a  worthy  successor  to  the  nimble-tongued 
Francis,  who  attended  upon  the  revels  of  Prince  Hal ;  to 
have  been  equally  prompt  with  his  "  anon,  anon,  sir ; " 
and  to  have  transcended  his  predecessor  in  honesty ;  for 
Falstaff,  the  veracity  of  whose  taste  no  man  will  venture 
to  impeach,  flatly  accuses  Francis  of  putting  lime  in  his 
sack ;  whereas  honest  Preston's  epitaph  lauds  him  for  the 
sobriety  of  his  conduct,  the  soundness  of  his  wine,  and 
the  fairness  of  his  measure.*^  The  worthy  dignitaries  of 
the  church,  however,  did  not^  appear  much  captivated  by 
the  sober  virtues  of  the  tapster;  the  deputy  organist, 
who  had  a  moist  look  out  of  the  eye,  made  some  shrewd 
remark   on  the   abstemiousness   of  a  man   brought   up 

*  As  this  inscription  is  rife  with  excellent  morality,  I  transcribe  it  for 
the  admonition  of  delinquent  tapsters.  It  is,  no  doubt,  the  production  of 
some  choice  spirit,  who  once  frequented  the  Boar's  Head. 

Bacchus,  to  give  the  toping  world  surprise, 
Produced  one  sober  son,  and  here  he  lies. 
Though  rear'd  among  full  hogsheads,  he  defy'd 
The  charms  of  wine,  and  every  one  beside. 
0  reader,  if  to  justice  thou'rt  inclined. 
Keep  honest  Preston  daily  in  thy  mind. 
He  drew  good  wine,  took  care  to  fill  his  pots, 
Had  sundry  virtues  that  excused  his  faults. 
You  that  on  Bacchus  have  the  like  dependence, 
Pray  copy  Bob  in  measure  and  attendance. 


172  THE  8KETGE-B00K. 

among  Ml  hogsheads ;  and  the  little  sexton  corroborated 
his  opinion  by  a  significant  wink,  and  a  dubious  shake  of 
the  head. 

Thus  far  my  researches,  though  they  threw  much  light 
on  the  history  of  tapsters,  fishmongers,  and  Lord  Mayors, 
yet  disappointed  me  in  the  great  object  of  my  quest,  the 
picture  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern.  No  such  painting 
was  to  be  found  in  the  church  of  St.  Michael.  *'  Marry  and 
amen  !  "  said  I,  "  here  endeth  my  research  !  "  So  I  was 
giving  the  matter  up,  with  the  air  of  a  baffled  antiquary, 
when  my  friend  the  sexton,  perceiving  me  to  be  curious 
in  every  thing  relative  to  the  old  tavern,  offered  to  show 
me  the  choice  vessels  of  the  vestry,  which  had  been 
handed  down  from  remote  times,  when  the  parish  meet- 
ings were  held  at  the  Boar's  Head.  These  were  de- 
posited in  the  parish  club-room,  which  had  been  trans- 
ferred, on  the  decline  of  the  ancient  establishment,  to  a 
tavern  in  the  neighborhood. 

A  few  steps  brought  us  to  the  house,  which  stands  No. 
12  Miles  Lane,  bearing  the  title  of  The  Mason's  Arms, 
and  is  kept  by  Master  Edward  Honeyball,  the  "bully- 
rock"  of  the  establishment.  It  is  one  of  those  little 
taverns  which  abound  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  and  form 
the  centre  of  gossip  and  intelligence  of  the  neighborhood. 
We  entered  the  bar-room,  which  was  narrow  and  darkling; 
for  in  these  close  lanes  but  few  rays  of  reflected  light  are 
enabled  to  struggle  down  to  the  inhabitants,  whose  broad 
day  is  at  best  but  a  tolerable  twilight.     The  room  was 


TEE  BOAR'S  HEAD  TAVERN,  173 

partitioned  into  boxes,  eacli  containing  a  table  spread 
with  a  clean  white  cloth,  ready  for  dinner.  This  showed 
that  the  guests  were  of  the  good  old  stamp,  and  divided 
their  day  equally,  for  it  was  but  just  one  o'clock.  At  the 
lower  end  of  the  room  was  a  clear  coal  fire,  before  which 
a  breast  of  lamb  was  roasting.  A  row  of  bright  brass 
candlesticks  and  pewter  mugs  glistened  along  the  man- 
telpiece, and  an  old-fashioned  clock  ticked  in  one  corner. 
There  was  something  primitive  in  this  medley  of  kitchen, 
parlor,  and  hall,  that  carried  me  back  to  earlier  times, 
and  pleased  me.  The  place,  indeed,  was  humble,  but 
every  thing  had  that  look  of  order  and  neatness,  which 
bespeaks  the  superintendence  of  a  notable  English  house- 
wife. A  group  of  amphibious-looking  beings,  who  might 
be  either  fishermen  or  sailor's,  were  regaling  themselves 
in  one  of  the  boxes.  As  I  was  a  visitor  of  rather  higher 
pretensions,  I  was  ushered  into  a  little  misshapen  back- 
room, having  at  least  nine  corners.  It  was  lighted  by  a 
skylight,  furnished  with  antiquated  leathern  chairs,  and 
ornamented  with  the  portrait  of  a  fat  pig.  It  was  evi- 
dently appropriated  to  particular  customers,  and  I  found 
a  shabby  gentleman,  in  a  red  nose  and  oil-cloth  hat, 
seated  in  one  corner,  meditating  on  a  half-empty  pot  of 
porter. 

The  old  sexton  had  taken  the  landlady  aside,  and  with 
an  air  of  profound  importance  imparted  to  her  my  er- 
rand. Dame  Honeyball  was  a  likely,  plump,  bustling 
little  woman,  and  no  bad  substitute  for  that  paragon  of 


174  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

hostesses,  Dame  Quickly.  She  seemed  delighted  with 
an  opportunity  to  oblige ;  and  hurrying  up  stairs  to  the 
archives  of  her  house,  where  the  precious  vessels  of  the 
parish  club  were  deposited,  she  returned,  smiling  and 
courtesying,  with  them  in  her  hands. 

The  first  she  presented  me  was  a  japanned  iron  tobac- 
co-box, of  gigantic  size,  out  of  which,  I  was  told,  the 
vestry  had  smoked  at  their  stated  meetings,  since  time 
immemorial;  and  which  was  never  suffered  to  be  pro- 
faned by  vulgar  hands,  or  used  on  common  occasions.  I 
received  it  with  becoming  reverence ;  but  what  was  my 
delight,  at  beholding  on  its  cover  the  identical  painting 
of  which  I  was  in  quest !  There  was  displayed  the  out- 
side of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern,  and  before  the  door  was 
to  be  seen  the  whole  convivial  group,  at  table,  in  full 
revel;  pictured  with  that  wonderful  fidelity  and  force, 
with  which  the  portraits  of  renowned  generals  and  com- 
modores are  illustrated  on  tobacco-boxes,  for  the  benefit 
of  posterity.  Lest,  however,  there  should  be  any  mis- 
take, the  cunning  limner  had  warily  inscribed  the  names 
of  Prince  Hal  and  Falstaff  on  the  bottoms  of  their  chairs. 

On  the  inside  of  the  cover  was  an  inscription,  nearly 
obliterated,  recording  that  this  box  was  the  gift  of  Sir 
Eichard  Gore,  for  the  use  of  the  vestry  meetings  at  the 
Boar's  Head  Tavern,  and  that  it  was  "  repaired  and  beau- 
tified by  his  successor,  Mr.  John  Packard,  1767."  Such 
is  a  faithful  description  of  this  august  and  venerable 
relic;  and  I  question  whether  the  learned  Scriblerius 


THE  BOAR'S  HEAD   TAVERN.  175 

contemplated  his  Koman  shield,  or  the  Knights  of  the 
Round  Table  the  long-sought  san-greal,  with  more  exul- 
tation. 

While  I  was  meditating  on  it  with  enraptured  gaze, 
Dame  Honeyball,  who  was  highly  gratified  by  the  inter- 
est it  excited,  put  in  my  hands  a  drinking  cup  or  goblet, 
which  also  belonged  to  the  vestry,  and  was  descended 
from  the  old  Boar's  Head.  It  bore  the  inscription  of 
having  been  the  gift  of  Francis  Wythers,  knight,  and  was 
held,  she  told  me,  in  exceeding  great  value,  being  consid- 
ered very  "  antyke."  This  last  opinion  was  strengthened 
by  the  shabby  gentleman  in  the  red  nose  and  oil-cloth 
hat,  and  whom  I  strongly  suspected  of  being  a  lineal  de- 
scendant from  the  valiant  Bardolph.  He  suddenly  roused 
from  his  meditation  on  the  pot  of  porter,  and,  casting  a 
knowing  look  at  the  goblet,  exclaimed,  "  Ay,  ay  !  the  head 
don't  ache  now  that  made  that  there  article  !  " 

The  great  importance  attached  to  this  memento  of 
ancient  revelry  by  modern  churchwardens  at  first  puzzled 
me ;  but  there  is  nothing  sharpens  the  apprehension  so 
much  as  antiquarian  research;  for  I  immediately  per- 
ceived that  this  could  be  no  other  than  the  identical 
"  parcel-gilt  goblet "  on  which  Falstaff  made  his  loving, 
but  faithless  vow  to  Dame  Quickly ;  and  which  would,  of 
course,  be  treasured  up  with  care  among  the  regalia  of 
her  domains,  as  a  testimony  of  that  solemn  contract.* 

*  Thou  didst  swear  to  me  upon  a  parcel-gilt  goblet,  sitting  m  my  Dol- 
phin chamber,  at  the  round  table,  by  a  sea-coal  fire,  on  Wednesday,  in 


176  THE  SKETCHBOOK. 

Mine  hostess,  indeed,  gave  me  a  long  history  how  the 
goblet  had  been  handed  down  from  generation  to  gener- 
ation. She  also  entertained  me  with  many  particulars 
concerning  the  worthy  vestrymen  who  have  seated  them- 
selves thus  quietly  on  the  stools  of  the  ancient  roysters  of 
Eastcheap,  and,  like  so  many  commentators,  utter  clouds 
of  smoke  in  honor  of  Shakspeare.  These  I  forbear  to 
relate,  lest  my  readers  should  not  be  as  curious  in  these 
matters  as  myself.  Suffice  it  to  say,  the  neighbors,  one 
and  all,  about  Eastcheap,  believe  that  Falstaff  and  his 
merry  crew  actually  lived  and  revelled  there.  Nay,  there 
are  several  legendary  anecdotes  concerning  him  still  ex- 
tant among  the  oldest  frequenters  of  the  Mason's  Arms, 
which  they  give  as  transmitted  down  from  their  fore- 
fathers; and  Mr.  M'Kash,  an  Irish  hair-dresser,  whose 
shop  stands  on  the  site  of  the  old  Boar's  Head,  has 
several  dry  jokes  of  Fat  Jack's,  not  laid  down  in  the 
books,  with  which  he  makes  his  customers  ready  to  die 
of  laughter. 

I  now  turned  to  my  friend  the  sexton  to  make  some 
further  inquiries,  but  I  found  him  sunk  in  pensive  med- 
itation. His  head  had  declined  a  little  on  one  side;  a 
deep  sigh  heaved  from  the  very  bottom  of  his  stomach ; 
and,  though  I  could  not  see  a  tear  trembling  in  his  eye, 


Whitsunweek,  when  the  prince  broke  thy  head  for  likening  his  father  to  a 
singing  man  at  Windsor  ;  thou  didst  swear  to  me  then,  as  I  was  washing 
thy  wound,  to  marry  me,  and  make  me  my  lady,  thy  wife.  Canst  thou 
deny  it  'i— Henry  IV.,  Pa/rt  3. 


THE  BOAR'S  HEAD   TAVEBN.  177 

yet  a  moisture  was  evidently  stealing  from  a  corner  of  his 
mouth.  I  followed  the  direction  of  his  eye  through  the 
door  which  stood  open,  and  found  it  fixed  wistfully  on 
the  savory  breast  of  lamb,  roasting  in  dripping  richness 
before  the  fire. 

I  now  called  to  mind  that,  in  the  eagerness  of  my  re- 
condite investigation,  I  was  keeping  the  poor  man  from 
his  dinner.  My  bowels  yearned  with  sympathy,  and, 
putting  in  his  hand  a  small  token  of  my  gratitude  and 
goodness,  I  departed,  with  a  hearty  benediction  on  him, 
Dame  Honeyball,  and  the  Parish  Club  of  Crooked  Lane  ; 
— ^not  forgetting  my  shabby,  but  sententious  friend,  in  the 
oil-cloth  hat  and  copper  nose. 

Thus  have  I  given  a  "  tedious  brief "  account  of  this 

interesting  research,  for  which,  if  it  prove  too  short  and 

unsatisfactory,  I  can  only  plead  my  inexperience  in  this 

branch  of  literature,  so  deservedly  popular  at  the  present 

day.     I  am  aware  that  a  more  skilful  illustrator  of  the 

immortal  bard  would  have  swelled  the  materials  I  have 

touched  upon,  to  a  good  merchantable  bulk ;  comprising 

the  biographies  of  William  Walworth,  Jack  Straw,  and 

Eobert  Preston;  some  notice  of  the  eminent  fishmongers 

of  St.  Michael's  ;  the   history  of  Eastcheap,   great  and 

little;  private  anecdotes   of  Dame  Honeyball,  and  her 

pretty  daughter,  whom  I  have  not  even  mentioned ;   to 

say  nothing  of  a  damsel  tending  the  breast  of  lamb,  (and 

whom,  by  the  way,  I  remarked  to  be  a  comely  lass,  with 

a  neat  foot  and   ankle ;) — the   whole  enlivened  by  the 
13 


178  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

riots  of  Wat  Tyler,  and  illuminated  by  the  great  fire  of 
London. 

All  this  I  leave,  as  a  rich  mine,  to  be  worked  by  future 
commentators ;  nor  do  I  despair  of  seeing  the  tobacco- 
box,  and  the  "parcel-gilt  goblet,"  which  I  have  thus 
brought  to  light,  the  subjects  of  future  engravings,  and 
almost  as  fruitful  of  voluminous  dissertations  and  dis- 
putes as  the  shield  of  Achilles,  or  the  far-famed  Portland 
vase. 


THE  MUTABILITY  OP  LITEEATUEE. 

A  COLLOQUY  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays, 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  brought, 
In  time's  great  period  shall  return  to  nought. 

I  know  that  all  the  muse's  heavenly  lays, 
With  toil  of  sprite  which  are  so  dearly  bought, 
As  idle  sounds,  of  few  or  none  are  sought, 

That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than  mere  praise. 

Drummond  of  Hawthorndbn. 

HEEE  are  certain  half-dreaming  moods  of  mind, 
in  which  we  naturally  steal  away  from  noise 
and  glare,  and  seek  some  quiet  haunt,  where  we 
may  indulge  our  reveries  and  build  our  air  castles  undis- 
turbed. In  such  a  mood  I  was  loitering  about  the  old 
gray  cloisters  of  Westminster  Abbey,  enjoying  that  lux- 
ury of  wandering  thought  which  one  is  apt  to  dignify 
with  the  name  of  reflection;  when  suddenly  an  inter- 
ruption of  madcap  boys  from  Westminster  School,  play- 
ing at  foot-ball,  broke  in  upon  the  monastic  stillness  of 
the  place,  making  the  vaulted  passages  and  mouldering 
tombs  echo  with  their  merriment,  I  sought  to  take  re- 
fuge from  their  noise  by  penetrating  still  deeper  into  the 

179      ^ 


180  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

solitudes  of  the  pile,  and  applied  to  one  of  the  vergers 
for  admission  to  the  library.  He  conducted  me  through 
a  portal  rich  with  the  crumbling  sculpture  of  former 
ages,  which  opened  upon  a  gloomy  passage  leading  to 
the  chapter-house  and  the  chamber  in  which  doomsday 
book  is  deposited.  Just  within  the  passage  is  a  small 
door  on  the  left.  To  this  the  verger  applied  a  key ;  it 
was  double  locked,  and  opened  with  some  difficulty,  as  if 
seldom  used.  We  now  ascended  a  dark  narrow  staircase, 
and,  passing  through  a  second  door,  entered  the  library. 
I  found  myself  in  a  lofty  antique  hall,  the  roof  sup- 
ported by  massive  joists  of  old  English  oak.  It  was 
soberly  lighted  by  a  row  of  Gothic  windows  at  a  con- 
siderable height  from  the  floor,  and  which  apparently 
opened  upon  the  roofs  of  the  cloisters.  An  ancient 
picture  of  some  reverend  dignitary  of  the  church  in  his 
robes  hung  over  the  fireplace.  Around  the  hall  and 
in  a  small  gallery  were  the  books,  arranged  in  carved 
oaken  cases.  They  consisted  principally  of  old  polem- 
ical writers,  and  were  much  more  worn  by  time  than 
use.  In  the  centre  of  the  library  was  a  solitary  table 
with  two  or  three  books  on  it,  an  inkstand  without 
ink,  and  a  few  pens  parched  by  long  disuse.  The  place 
seemed  fitted  for  quiet  study  and  profound  meditation. 
It  was  buried  deep  among  the  massive  walls  of  the 
abbey,  and  shut  up  from  the  tumult  of  the  world.  I 
could  only  hear  now  and  then  the  shouts  of  the  school- 
boys faintly  swelling  from  the  cloisters,  and  the  sound  of 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE.  181 

a  bell  tolling  for  prayers,  echoing  soberly  along  the  roofs 
of  the  abbey.  By  degrees  the  shouts  of  merriment  grew 
fainter  and  fainter,  and  at  length  died  away;  the  bell 
ceased  to  toll,  and  a  profound  silence  reigned  through 
the  dusky  hall. 

I  had  taken  down  a  little  thick  quarto,  curiously 
bound  in  parchment,  with  brass  clasps,  and  seated  my- 
self at  the  table  in  a  venerable  elbow-chair.  Instead 
of  reading,  however,  I  was  beguiled  by  the  solemn 
monastic  air,  and  lifeless  quiet  of  the  place,  into  a 
train  of  musing.  As  I  looked  around  upon  the  old 
volumes  in  their  mouldering  covers,  thus  ranged  on  the 
shelves,  and  apparently  never  disturbed  in  their  repose, 
I  could  not  but  consider  the  library  a  kind  of  literary 
catacomb,  where  authors,  like  mummies,  are  piously 
entombed,  and  left  to  blacken  and  moulder  in  dusty 
oblivion. 

How  much,  thought  I,  has  each  of  these  volumes, 
now  thrust  aside  with  such  indifference,  cost  some  ach- 
ing head !  how  many  weary  days  !  how  many  sleepless 
nights !  How  have  their  authors  buried  themselves  in 
the  solitude  of  cells  and  cloisters;  shut  themselves  up 
from  the  face  of  man,  and  the  still  more  blessed  face  of 
nature;  and  devoted  themselves  to  painful  research  and 
intense  reflection  !  And  all  for  w^hat  ?  to  occupy  an  inch 
of  dusty  shelf — to  have  the  title  of  their  w^orks  read 
now  and  then  in  a  future  age,  by  some  drowsy  church- 
man or  casual  straggler  like  myself ;  and  in  another  age 


182  ^'SE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

to  be  lost,  even  to  remembrance.  Such  is  tlie  amount  of 
this  boasted  immortality.  A  mere  temporary  rumor,  a 
local  sound;  like  the  tone  of  that  bell  which  has  just 
tolled  among  these  towers,  filling  the  ear  for  a  moment 
— lingering  transiently  in  echo — and  then  passing  away 
like  a  thing  that  was  not. 

While  I  sat  half  murmuring,  half  meditating  these 
unprofitable  speculations  with  my  head  resting  on  my 
hand,  I  was  thrumming  with  the  other  hand  upon  the 
quarto,  until  I  accidentally  loosened  the  clasps ;  when, 
to  my  utter  astonishment,  the  little  book  gave  two  oi?, 
three  yawns,  like  one  awaking  from  a  deep  sleep ;  then 
a  husky  hem;  and  at  length  began  to  talk.  At  first 
its  voice  was  very  hoarse  and  broken,  being  much 
troubled  by  a  cobweb  which  some  studious  spider  had 
woven  across  it ;  and  having  probably  contracted  a  cold 
from  long  exposure  to  the  chills  and  damps  of  the 
abbey.  In  a  short  time,  however,  it  became  more  dis- 
tinct, and  I  soon  found  it  an  exceedingly  fluent  con- 
versable little  tome.  Its  language,  to  be  sure,  was 
rather  quaint  and  obsolete,  and  its  pronunciation,  what, 
in  the  present  day,  would  be  deemed  barbarous ;  but  I 
shall  endeavor,  as  far  as  I  am  able,  to  render  it  in  mod- 
em parlance. 

It  began  with  railings  about  the  neglect  of  the  world— 
about  merit  being  suffered  to  languish  in  obscurity,  and 
other  such  commonplace  topics  of  literary  repining,  and 
complained  bitterly  that  it  had  not  been  opened  for  more 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE.  183 

than  two  centuries.  That  the  dean  only  looked  now  and 
then  into  the  library,  sometimes  took  down  a  volume  or 
two,  trifled  with  them  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  re- 
turned them  to  their  shelves.  "  What  a  plague  do  they 
mean,"  said  the  little  quarto,  which  I  began  to  perceive 
was  somewhat  choleric,  "  what  a  plague  do  they  mean  by 
keeping  several  thousand  volumes  of  us  shut  up  here, 
and  watched  by  a  set  of  old  vergers,  like  so  many  beau- 
ties in  a  harem,  merely  to  be  looked  at  now  and  then  by 
the  dean  ?  Books  were  written  to  give  pleasure  and  to 
be  enjoyed;  and  I  would  have  a  rule  passed  that  the  dean 
should  pay  each  of  us  a  visit  at  least  once  a  year ;  or  if 
he  is  not  equal  to  the  task,  let  them  once  in  a  while  turn 
loose  the  whole  school  of  Westminster  among  us,  that  at 
any  rate  we  may  now  and  then> have  an  airing." 

"Softly,  my  worthy  friend,"  replied  I,  "you  are  not 
aware  how  much  better  you  are  off  than  most  books  of 
your  generation.  By  being  stored  away  in  this  ancient 
library,  you  are  like  the  treasured  remains  of  those  saints 
and  monarchs,  which  lie  enshrined  in  the  adjoining  chap- 
els ;  while  the  remains  of  your  contemporary  mortals,  left 
to  the  ordinary  course  of  nature,  have  long  since  returned 
to  dust." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  little  tome,  ruffling  his  leaves  and  look- 
ing big,  "  I  was  written  for  all  the  world,  not  for  the  book- 
worms of  an  abbey.  I  was  intended  to  circulate  from 
hand  to  hand,  like  other  great  contemporary  works ;  but 
here  have  I  been  clasped  up  for  more  than  two  centuries, 


184  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  might  have  silently  fallen  a  prey  to  these  worms  that 
are  playing  the  very  vengeance  with  my  intestines,  if  you 
had  not  by  chance  given  me  an  opportunity  of  uttering  a 
few  last  words  before  I  go  to  pieces." 

"My  good  friend,"  rejoined  I,  "had  you  been  left  to 
the  circulation  of  which  you  speak,  you  would  long  ere 
this  have  been  no  more.  To  judge  from  your  physiogno- 
my, you  are  now  well  stricken  in  years  :  very  few  of  your 
contemporaries  can  be  at  present  in  existence  ;  and  those 
few  owe  their  longevity  to  being  immured  like  yourself 
in  old  libraries ;  which,  suffer  me  to  add,  instead  of  liken- 
ing to  harems,  you  might  more  properly  and  gratefully 
have  compared  to  those  infirmaries  attached  to  religious 
establishments,  for  the  benefit  of  the  old  and  decrepit, 
and  where,  by  quiet  fostering  and  no  employment,  they 
often  endure  to  an  amazingly  good-for-nothing  old  age. 
You  talk  of  your  contemporaries  as  if  in  circulation — 
where  do  we  meet  with  their  works  ?  what  do  we  hear  of 
Eobert  Groteste,  of  Lincoln  ?  No  one  could  have  toiled 
harder  than  he  for  immortality.  He  is  said  to  have  writ- 
ten nearly  two  hundred  volumes.  He  built,  as  it  were,  a 
pyramid  of  books  to  perpetuate  his  name  :  but,  alas !  the 
pyramid  has  long  since  fallen,  and  only  a  few  fragments 
are  scattered  in  various  libraries,  where  they  are  scarcely 
disturbed  even  by  the  antiquarian.  What  do  we  hear  of 
Giraldus  Cambrensis,  the  historian,  antiquary,  philoso- 
pher, theologian,  and  poet  ?  He  declined  two  bishoprics, 
that  he  might  shut  himself  up  and  write  for  posterity ; 


TEE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITEBATUBE.  185 

but  posterity  never  inquires  after  his  labors.  What  of 
Henry  of  Huntingdon,  who,  besides  a  learned  history  of 
England,  wrote  a  treatise  on  the  contempt  of  the  world, 
which  the  world  has  revenged  by  forgetting  him  ?  What 
is  quoted  of  Joseph  of  Exeter,  styled  the  miracle  of  his 
age  in  classical  composition  ?  Of  his  three  great  heroic 
poems  one  is  lost  forever,  excepting  a  mere  fragment ;  the 
others  are  known  only  to  a  few  of  the  curious  in  litera- 
ture ;  and  as  to  his  love  verses  and  epigrams,  they  have 
entirely  disappeared.  What  is  in  current  use  of  John 
Wallis,  the  Franciscan,  who  acquired  the  name  of  the 
tree  of  life  ?  Of  William  of  Malmsbury ; — of  Simeon  of 
Durham  ; — of  Benedict  of  Peterborough  ; — of  John  Han- 

vill  of  St.  Albans ;— of " 

"Prithee,  friend,"  cried  the  quarto,  in  a  testy  tone, 
"  how  old  do  you  think  me  ?  You  are  talking  of  authors 
that  lived  long  before  my  time,  and  wrote  either  in  Latin 
or  French,  so  that  they  in  a  manner  expatriated  them- 
selves, and  deserved  to  be  forgotten;*  but  I,  sir,  was 
ushered  into  the  world  from  the  press  of  the  renowned 
Wynkyn  de  Worde.  I  was  written  in  my  own  native 
tongue,  at  a  time  when  the  language  had  become  fixed ; 
and  indeed  I  was  considered  a  model  of  pure  and  elegant 
English." 

*  In  Latin  and  French  hath  many  soueraine  wittes  had  great  delyte  to 
endite,  and  have  many  noble  thinges  fulfilde,  but  eertes  there  ben  some 
that  speaken  their  poisye  in  French,  of  which  speche  the  Frenchmen  have 
as  good  a  antasye  as  we  have  in  hearying  of  Frenchmen's  Englishe.— 
ChoAf^T^    Testament  of  Love. 


186  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

(I  should  observe  that  these  remarks  were  couched  in 
such  intolerably  antiquated  terms,  that  I  have  had  infinite 
difficulty  in  rendering  them  into  modern  phraseology.) 

"I  cry  your  mercy,"  said  I,  "for  mistaking  your  age; 
but  it  matters  little  :  almost  all  the  writers  of  your  time 
have  likewise  passed  into  forgetfulness ;  and  De  Worde's 
publications  are  mere  literary  rarities  among  book-col- 
lectors. The  purity  and  stability  of  language,  too,  on 
which  you  found  your  claims  to  perpetuity,  have  been 
the  fallacious  dependence  of  authors  of  every  age,  even 
back  to  the  times  of  the  worthy  Eobert  of  Gloucester, 
who  wrote  his  history  in  rhymes  of  mongrel  Saxon.* 
Even  now  many  talk  of  Spenser's  '  well  of  pure  English 
undefiled,'  as  if  the  language  ever  sprang  from  a  well  or 
fountain-head,  and  was  not  rather  a  mere  confluence  of 
various  tongues,  perpetually  subject  to  changes  and  in- 
termixtures. It  is  this  which  has  made  English  litera- 
ture so  extremely  mutable,  and  the  reputation  built  upon 
it  so  fleeting.  Unless  thought  can  be  committed  to  some- 
thing more  permanent  and  unchangeable  than  such  a 
medium,  even  thought  must  share  the  fate  of  every  thing 
else,  and  fall  into  decay.     This  should  serve  as  a  check 

*  Holinshed,  in  his  Chronicle,  observes,  "afterwards,  also,  by  deligent 
travell  of  Geffry  Chaucer  and  of  John  Gowre,  in  the  time  of  Richard  the 
Second,  and  after  them  of  John  Scogan  and  John  Lydgate,  monke  of  Ber- 
rie,  onr  said  toong  was  brought  to  an  excellent  passe,  notwithstanding 
that  it  never  came  unto  the  type  of  perfection  until  the  time  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  wherein  John  Jewell,  Bishop  of  Sarum,  John  Fox,  and  sundrie 
learned  and  excellent  writers,  have  fully  accomplished  the  ornature  of  the 
same,  to  their  great  praise  and  immortal  commendaticn." 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITEBATUBB.  187 

upon  the  vanity  and  exultation  of  the  most  popular 
writer.  He  finds  the  language  in  which  he  has  embarked 
his  fame  gradually  altering,  and  subject  to  the  dilapida- 
tions of  time  and  the  caprice  of  fashion.  He  looks  back 
and  beholds  the  early  authors  of  his  country,  once  the 
favorites  of  their  day,  supplanted  by  modern  writers.  A 
few  short  ages  have  covered  them  with  obscurity,  and 
their  merits  can  only  be  relished  by  the  quaint  taste  of 
the  bookworm.  And  such,  he  anticipates,  will  be  the 
fate  of  his  own  work,  which,  however  it  may  be  admired 
in  its  day,  and  held  up  as  a  model  of  purity,  will  in  the 
course  of  years  grow  antiquated  and  obsolete ;  until  it 
shall  become  almost  as  unintelligible  in  its  native  land  as 
an  Egyptian  obelisk,  or  one  of  those  Eunic  inscriptions 
said  to  exist  in  the  deserts  of  Tartary.  I  declare,"  added 
I,  with  some  emotion,  "when  I  contemplate  a  modern 
library,  filled  with  new  works,  in  all  the  bravery  of  rich 
gilding  and  binding,  I  feel  disposed  to  sit  down  and 
weep ;  like  the  good  Xerxes,  when  he  surveyed  his  army, 
pranked  out  in  all  the  splendor  of  military  array,  and  re- 
flected that  in  one  hundred  years  not  one  of  them  would 
be  in  existence  !  " 

"Ah,"  said  the  little  quarto,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "I  see 
how  it  is ;  these  modern  scribblers  have  superseded  all 
the  good  old  authors.  I  suppose  nothing  is  read  now-a- 
days  but  Sir  Philip  Sydney's  Arcadia,  Sackville's  sfcately 
plays,  and  Mirror  for  Magistrates,  or  the  fine-spun  eu- 
phuisms of  the  *  unparalleled  John  Lyly.' " 


188  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

"There  you  are  again  mistaken,"  said  I;  "tlie  writers 
whom  you  suppose  in  vogue,  because  they  happened 
to  be  so  when  you  were  last  in  circulation,  have  long 
since  had  their  day.  Sir  Philip  Sydney's  Arcadia,  the 
immortality  of  which  was  so  fondly  predicted  by  his  ad- 
mirers,'- and  which,  in  truth,  is  full  of  noble  thoughts, 
delicate  images,  and  graceful  turns  of  language,  is  now 
scarcely  ever  mentioned.  Sackville  has  strutted  into 
obscurity ;  and  even  Lyly,  though  his  writings  were 
once  the  delight  of  a  court,  and  apparently  perpetuated 
by  a  proverb,  is  now  scarcely  known  even  by  name. 
A  whole  crowd  of  authors  who  wrote  and  wrangled 
at  the  time,  have  likewise  gone  down,  with  all  their 
writings  and  their  controversies.  Wave  after  wave  of 
succeeding  literature  has  rolled  over  them,  until  they 
are  buried  so  deep,  that  it  is  ,  only  now  and  then  that 
some  industrious  diver  after  fragments  of  antiquity 
brings  up  a  specimen  for  the  gratification  of  the  curious. 

"For  my  part,"  I  continued,  "I  consider  this  muta- 
bility of  language  a  wise  precaution  of  Providence  for 
the  benefit  of  the  world  at  large,  and  of  authors  in 
particular.     To  reason  from   analogy,  we   daily  behold 


*  Live  ever  sweete  booke ;  the  simple  image  of  his  gentle  witt,  and  the 
golden-pillar  of  his  noble  courage ;  and  ever  notify  unto  the  world  that 
thy  writer  was  the  secretary  of  eloquence,  the  breath  of  the  muses,  the 
honey-bee  of  the  daintyest  flowers  of  witt  and  arte,  the  pith  of  morale 
and  intellectual  virtues,  the  arme  of  Bellona  in  the  field,  the  tonge  of 
Suada  in  the  chamber,  the  sprite  of  Practise  in  esse,  and  the  paragon  of 
excellency  in  print. — Harvey  Piercers  Supererogation, 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE.  189 

the  varied  and  beautiful  tribes  of  vegetables  springing 
up,  flourishing,  adorning  the  fields  for  a  short  time, 
and  then  fading  into  dust,  to  make  way  for  their  suc- 
cessors. Were  not  this  the  case,  the  fecundity  of  na- 
ture would  be  a  grievance  instead  of  a  blessing.  The 
earth  would  groan  with  rank  and  excessive  vegetation, 
and  its  surface  become  a  tangled  wilderness.  In  like 
manner  the  works  of  genius  and  learning  decline,  and 
make  way  for  subsequent  productions.  Language  grad- 
ually varies,  and  with  it  fade  away  the  writings  of 
authors  who  have  flourished  their  allotted  time ;  other- 
wise, the  creative  powers  of  genius  would  overstock 
the  world,  and  the  mind  would  be  completely  bewil- 
dered in  the  endless  mazes  of  literature.  Formerly 
there  were  some  restraints  ^on  this  excessive  multipli- 
cation. Works  had  to  be  transcribed  by  hand,  which 
was  a  slow  and  laborious  operation ;  they  were  written 
either  on  parchment,  which  was  expensive,  so  that  one 
work  was  often  erased  to  make  way  for  another;  or 
on  papyrus,  which  was  fragile  and  extremely  perish- 
able. Authorship  was  a  limited  and  unprofitable  craft, 
pursued  chiefly  by  monks  in  the  leisure  and  solitude 
of  their  cloisters.  The  accumulation  of  manuscripts  was 
slow  and  costly,  and  confined  almost  entirely  to  mon- 
asteries. To  these  circumstances  it  may,  in  some  meas- 
ure, be  owing  that  we  have  not  been  inundated  by  the 
intellect  of  antiquity ;  that  the  fountains  of  thought 
have  not  been  broken  up,  and  modern  genius  drowned 


190  TEE  8KETGE-B00K. 

in  the  deluge.  But  tlie  inventions  of  paper  and  the 
press  have  put  an  end  to  all  these  restraints.  They 
have  made  every  one  a  writer,  and  enabled  every  mind 
to  pour  itself  into  print,  and  diffuse  itself  over  the 
whole  intellectual  world.  The  consequences  are  alarm- 
ing. The  stream  of  literature  has  swollen  into  a  tor- 
rent— augmented  into  a  river — ^expanded  into  a  sea.  A 
few  centuries  since,  five  or  six  hundred  manuscripts 
constituted  a  great  library;  but  what  would  you  say 
to  libraries  such  as  actually  exist,  containing  three  or 
four  hundred  thousand  volumes ;  legions  of  authors  at 
the  same  time  busy ;  and  the  press  going  on  with  fear- 
fully increasing  activity,  to  double  and  quadruple  the 
number?  Unless  some  unforeseen  mortality  should  break 
out  among  the  progeny  of  the  muse,  now  that  she  has 
become  so  prolific,  I  tremble  for  posterity.  I  fear  the 
mere  fluctuation  of  language  will  not  be  sufficient.  Cri- 
ticism may  do  much.  It  increases  with  the  increase  of 
literature,  and  resembles  one  of  those  salutary  checks 
on  population  spoken  of  by  economists.  All  possible 
encouragement,  therefore,  should  be  given  to  the  growth 
of  critics,  good  or  bad.  But  I  fear  all  will  be  in  vain ; 
let  criticism  do  what  it  may,  writers  will  write,  print- 
ers will  print,  and  the  world  will  inevitably  be  over- 
stocked with  good  books.  It  will  soon  be  the  employ- 
ment of  a  lifetime  merely  to  learn  their  names.  Many 
a  man  of  passable  information,  at  the  present  day,  reads 
scarcely  anything  but  reviews ;  and  before  long  a  man  of 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATUBE.  191 

erudition  will  be  little  better  tlian  a  mere  walking  cata- 
logue." 

"Mj  very  good  sir,"  said  the  little  quarto,  yawning 
most  drearily  in  my  face,  "  excuse  my  interrupting  you, 
but  I  perceive  you  are  rather  given  to  prose.  I  would 
ask  the  fate  of  an  author  who  was  making  some  noise 
just  as  I  left  the  world.  His  reputation,  however,  was 
considered  quite  temporary.  The  learned  shook  their 
heads  at  him,  for  he  was  a  poor  half-educated  varlet, 
that  knew  little  of  Latin,  and  nothing  of  Greek,  and 
had  been  obliged  to  run  the  country  for  deer-stealing. 
I  think  his  name  was  Shakspeare.  I  presume  he  soon 
sunk  into  oblivion." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  I,  "it  is  owing  to  that  very 
man  that  the  literature  of  his  period  has  experienced 
a  duration  beyond  the  ordinary  term  of  English  liter- 
ature. There  rise  authors  now  and  then,  who  seem 
proof  against  the  mutability  of  language,  because  they 
have  rooted  themselves  in  the  unchanging  principles 
of  human  nature.  They  are  like  gigantic  trees  that 
we  sometimes  see  on  the  banks  of  a  stream ;  which, 
by  their  vast  and  deep  roots,  penetrating  through  the 
mere  surface,  and  laying  hold  on  the  very  foundations 
of  the  earth,  preserve  the  soil  around  them  from  be- 
ing swept  away  by  the  ever-flowing  current,  and  hold 
up  many  a  neighboring  plant,  and,  perhaps,  worthless 
weed,  to  perpetuity.  Such  is  the  case  with  Shakspeare, 
whom  we  behold  defying   the   encroachments   of  time, 


192  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

retaining  in  modern  use  the  language  and  literature 
of  his  day,  and  giving  duration  to  many  an  indifferent 
author,  merely  from  having  flourished  in  his  vicinity. 
But  even  he,  I  grieve  to  say,  is  gradually  assuming 
the  tint  of  age,  and  his  whole  form  is  overrun  by  a 
profusion  of  commentators,  who,  like  clambering  vines 
and  creepers,  almost  bury  the  noble  plant  that  upholds 
them." 

Here  the  little  quarto  began  to  heave  his  sides  and 
chuckle,  until  at  length  he  broke  out  in  a  plethoric  fit  of 
laughter  that  had  well  nigh  choked  him,  by  reason  of  his 
excessive  corpulency.  "Mighty  well !  "  cried  he,  as  soon 
as  he  could  recover  breath,  "  mighty  well !  and  so  you 
would  persuade  me  that  the  literature  of  an  age  is  to  be 
perpetuated  by  a  vagabond  deer-stealer !  by  a  man  with- 
out learning ;  by  a  poet,  forsooth — a  poet !  "  And  here 
he  wheezed  forth  another  fit  of  laughter. 

I  confess  that  I  felt  somewhat  nettled  at  this  rudeness, 
which,  however,  I  pardoned  on  account  of  his  having 
flourished  in  a  less  polished  age.  I  determined,  never- 
theless, not  to  give  up  my  point. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  I,  positively,  "  a  poet ;  for  of  all  writ- 
ers he  has  the  best  chance  for  immortality.  Others  may 
write  from  the  head,  but  he  writes  from  the  heart,  and 
the  heart  will  always  understand  him.  He  is  the  faithful 
portrayer  of  nature,  whose  features  are  always  the  same, 
and  always  interesting.  Prose  writers  are  voluminous 
and  unwieldy ;    their  pages  are  crowded  with  common^ 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE.  I93 

places,  and  their  thoughts  expanded  into  tediousness. 
But  with  the  true  poet  every  thing  is  terse,  touching,  or 
brilliant.  He  gives  the  choicest  thoughts  in  the  choicest 
language.  He  illustrates  them  by  every  thing  that  h'^ 
sees  most  striking  in  nature  and  art.  He  enriches  them 
by  pictures  of  human  life,  such  as  it  is  passing  before 
him.  His  writings,  therefore,  contain  the  spirit,  the 
aroma,  if  I  may  use  the  phrase,  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lives.  They  are  caskets  which  inclose  within  a  small 
compass  the  wealth  of  the  language — its  family  jewels, 
which  are  thus  transmitted  in  a  portable  form  to  poster- 
ity. The  setting  may  occasionally  be  antiquated,  and  re- 
quire now  and  then  to  be  renewed,  as  in  the  case  of 
Chaucer;  but  the  brilliancy  and  intrinsic  value  of  the 
gems  continue  unaltered.  Cast;  a  look  back  over  the  long 
reach  of  literary  history.  "What  vast  valleys  of  dulness, 
filled  with  monkish  legends  and  academical  controver- 
sies !  what  bogs  of  theological  speculations !  what  dreary 
wastes  of  metaphysics !  Here  and  there  only  do  we  be- 
hold the  heaven-illuminated  bards,  elevated  like  beacons 
on  their  widely-separate  heights,  to  transmit  the  pure 
light  of  poetical  intelligence  from  age  to  age."  * 

*  Thorow  earth  and  waters  deepe, 

The  pen  by  skill  doth  passe  : 
And  f  eatly  nyps  the  worldes  abuse, 

And  shoes  us  in  a  glasse, 
The  vertu  and  the  vice 

Of  every  wight  alyve  ; 
The  honey  comb  that  bee  doth  make 

Is  not  so  sweet  in  hy ve, 

18 


194  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

I  was  just  about  to  launch  forth  into  eulogiums  upon 
the  poets  of  the  day,  when  the  sudden  opening  of  the 
door  caused  me  to  turn  my  head.  It  was  the  yerger,  who 
came  to  inform  me  that  it  was  time  to  close  the  library. 
I  sought  to  have  a  parting  word  with  the  quarto,  but  the 
worthy  little  tome  was  silent ;  the  clasps  were  closed : 
and  it  looked  perfectly  unconscious  of  all  that  had 
passed.  I  have  been  to  the  library  two  or  three  times 
since,  and  have  endeavored  to  draw  it  into  further  con- 
versation, but  in  vain ;  and  whether  all  this  rambling 
colloquy  actually  took  place,  or  whether  it  was  another 
of  those  odd  day-dreams  to  which  I  am  subject,  I  have 
never  to  this  moment  been  able  to  discover. 

As  are  the  golden  leves 

That  drop  from  poet's  head  1 
Which  doth  surmount  our  common  talke 

As  farre  as  dross  doth  lead. 

Chv/rchya/rd^ 


EUEAL  FUNEEALS. 

Here's  a  few  flowers  !  but  about  midniglit  more : 
The  herbs  that  have  on  them  cold  dew  o'  the  night ; 

Are  strewings  fitt'st  for  graves 

You  were  as  flowers  now  wither'd  ;  even  so 
These  herblets  shall,  which  we  upon  you  strow. 

Cymbelinb. 

MONG  the  beautiful  and  simple-hearted  cus- 
toms of  rural  life  which  still  linger  in  some 
parts  of  England,  are  those  of  strewing  flowers 
before  the  funerals,  and  planting  them  at  the  graves  of 
departed  friends.  These,  it  is  said,  are  the  remains  of 
some  of  the  rites  of  the  primitive  church ;  but  they  are 
of  still  higher  antiquity,  having  been  observed  among  the 
Greeks  and  Romans,  and  frequently  mentioned  by  their 
writers,  and  were,  no  doubt,  the  spontaneous  tributes 
of  unlettered  affection,  originating  long  before  art  had 
tasked  itself  to  modulate  sorrow  into  song,  or  story  it  on 
the  monument.  They  are  now  only  to  be  met  with  in  the 
most  distant  and  retired  places  of  the  kingdom,  where 
fashion  and  innovation  have  not  been  able  to  throng  in, 
and  trample  out  all  the  curious  and  interesting  traces  of 
the  olden  time. 

195 


196  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

In  Glamorgansliire,  we  are  told,  the  bed  whereon  the 
corpse  lies  is  covered  with  flowers,  a  custom  alluded  to 
in  one  of  the  wild  and  plaintive  ditties  of  Ophelia  : 

White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow 

Larded  all  with  sweet  flowers  ; 
Which  be-wept  to  the  grave  did  go. 

With  true  love  showers. 

There  is  also  a  most  delicate  and  beautiful  rite  ob- 
served in  some  of  the  remote  villages  of  the  south,  at  the 
funeral  of  a  female  who  has  died  young  and  unmarried. 
A  chaplet  of  white  flowers  is  borne  before  the  corpse  by 
a  young  girl  nearest  in  age,  size,  and  resemblance,  and  is 
afterwards  hung  up  in  the  church  over  the  accustomed 
seat  of  the  deceased.  These  chaplets  are  sometimes 
made  of  white  paper,  in  imitation  of  flowers,  and  inside 
of  them  is  generally  a  pair  of  white  gloves.  They  are  in- 
tended as  emblems  of  the  purity  of  the  deceased,  and  the 
crown  of  glory  which  she  has  received  in  heaven. 

In  some  parts  of  the  country,  also,  the  dead  are  carried 
to  the  grave  with  the  singing  of  psalms  and  hymns  :  a 
kind  of  triumph,  "to  show,"  says  Bourne,  "that  they 
have  finished  their  course  with  joy,  and  are  become  con- 
querors." This,  I  am  informed,  is  observed  in  some  of 
the  northern  counties,  particularly  in  Northumberland, 
and  it  has  a  pleasing,  though  melancholy  effect,  to  hear, 
of  a  still  evening,  in  some  lonely  country  scene,  the 
mournful  melody  of  a  funeral  dirge  swelling  from  a  dis- 


BUBAL  FUNEBAL8.  I97 

tance,  and  to  see  the  train  slowly  moving  along  the  land- 
scape. 

Thus,  thus,  and  thus,  we  compass  round 

Thy  harmlesse  and  unhaunted  ground, 
And  as  we  sing  thy  dirge,  we  will 

The  dafiodill 
And  other  flowers  lay  upon 
The  altar  of  our  love,  thy  stone. 

Herrick. 

There  is  also  a  solemn  respect  paid  by  the  traveller  to 
the  passing  funeral  in  these  sequestered  places  ;  for  such 
spectacles,  occurring  among  the  quiet  abodes  of  nature, 
sink  deep  into  the  soul.  As  the  mourning  train  ap- 
proaches, he  pauses,  uncovered,  to  let  it  go  by ;  he  then 
follows  silently  in  the  rear ;  sometimes  quite  to  the 
grave,  at  other  times  for  a  few  hundred  yards,  and,  hav- 
ing paid  this  tribute  of  respect  to  the  deceased,  turns  and 
resumes  his  journey. 

The  rich  vein  of  melancholy  which  runs  through  the 
English  character,  and  gives  it  some  of  its  most  touching 
and  ennobling  graces,  is  finely  evidenced  in  these  pa- 
thetic customs,  and  in  the  solicitude  shown  by  the  com- 
mon people  for  an  honored  and  a  peaceful  grave.  The 
humblest  peasant,  whatever  may  be  his  lowly  lot  while 
living,  is  anxious  that  some  little  respect  may  be  paid  to 
his  remains.  Sir  Thomas  Overbury,  describing  the 
"faire  and  happy  milkmaid,"  observes,  "thus  lives  she, 
and  all  her  care  is,  that  she  may  die  in  the  spring-time, 
to  have  store  of  flowers  stucke  upon  her  windingsheet." 


198  THE  SKETCH-BOOE. 

The  poets,  too,  who  always  breathe  the  feeling  of  a  na- 
tion, continually  advert  to  this  fond  solicitude  about  the 
grave.  In  "  The  Maid's  Tragedy,"  by  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  there  is  a  beautiful  instance  of  the  kind,  de- 
scribing the  capricious  melancholy  of  a  broken-hearted 
girl : 

When  she  sees  a  bank 

Stuck  full  of  flowers,  she,  with  a  sigh,  will  teU 

Her  servants,  what  a  pretty  place  it  were 

To  bury  lovers  in  ;  and  make  her  maids 

Pluck  'em,  and  strew  her  over  like  a  corse. 

The  custom  of  decorating  graves  was  once  universally 
prevalent :  osiers  were  carefully  bent  over  them  to  keep 
the  turf  uninjured,  and  about  them  were  planted  ever- 
greens and  flowers.  "  We  adorn  their  graves,"  says 
Evelyn,  in  his  Sylva,  "  with  flowers  and  redolent  plants, 
just  emblems  of  the  life  of  man,  which  has  been  com- 
pared in  Holy  Scriptures  to  those  fading  beauties,  whose 
roots  being  buried  in  dishonor,  rise  again  in  glory." 
This  usage  has  now  become  extremely  rare  in  England ; 
but  it  may  still  be  met  with  in  the  church-yards  of  retired 
villages,  among  the  Welsh  mountains ;  and  I  recollect  an 
instance  of  it  at  the  small  town  of  Ruthen,  which  lies  at 
the  head  of  the  beautiful  vale  of  Clewyd.  I  have  been 
told  also  by  a  friend,  who  was  present  at  the  funeral  of  a 
young  girl  in  Glamorganshire,  that  the  female  attendants 
had  their  aprons  full  of  flowers,  which,  as  soon  as  the 
body  was  interred,  they  stuck  about  the  grave. 


BUBAL  FUNEBALS.  199 

He  noticed  several  graves  whicli  had  been  decorated 
in  the  same  manner.  As  the  flowers  had  been  merely 
stuck  in  the  ground,  and  not  planted,  they  had  soon 
withered,  and  might  be  seen  in  various  states  of 
decay;  some  drooping,  others  quite  perished.  They 
were  afterwards  to  be  supplanted  by  holly,  rosemary, 
and  other  evergreens ;  which  on  some  graves  had  grown 
to  great  luxuriance,  and  overshadowed  the  tomb- 
stones. 

There  was  formerly  a  melancholy  fancifulness  in  the 
arrangement  of  these  rustic  offerings,  that  had  something 
in  it  truly  poetical.  The  rose  was  sometimes  blended 
with  the  lily,  to  form  a  general  emblem  of  frail  mortality. 
"This  sweet  flower,"  said  Evelyn,  "borne  on  a  branch 
set  with  thorns,  and  accompa^nied  with  the  lily,  are  nat- 
ural hieroglyphics  of  our  fugitive,  umbratile,  anxious,  and 
transitory  life,  which,  making  so  fair  a  show  for  a  time,  is 
not  yet  without  its  thorns  and  crosses."  The  nature  and 
color  of  the  flowers,  and  of  the  ribbons  with  which  they 
were  tied,  had  often  a  particular  reference  to  the  qualities 
or  story  of  the  deceased,  or  were  expressive  of  the  feel- 
ings of  the  mourner.  In  an  old  poem,  entitled  "Cory- 
don's  Doleful  Knell,"  a  lover  specifies  the  decorations  he 
intends  to  use : 

A  garland  shall  be  framed 

By  art  and  nature's  skill, 
Of  sundry-eolor'd  flowers, 

In  token  of  good-wiU. 


200  THE  8EETCH-B00K. 

And  sundry-color'd  ribands 

On  it  I  will  bestow  ; 
But  chieiiy  blacke  and  yellowe 

With  her  to  grave  shall  go. 

I'll  deck  her  tomb  with  flowers, 

The  rarest  ever  seen ; 
And  with  my  tears  as  showers, 

I'll  keep  them  fresh  and  green. 

The  white  rose,  we  are  told,  was  planted  at  the  grave 
of  a  virgin ;  her  chaplet  was  tied  with  white  ribbons,  in 
token  of  her  spotless  innocence  ;  though  sometimes  black 
ribbons  were  intermingled,  to  bespeak  the  grief  of  the 
survivors.  The  red  rose  was  occasionally  used  in  remem- 
brance of  such  as  had  been  remarkable  for  benevolence  ; 
but  roses  in  general  were  appropriated  to  the  graves  of 
lovers.  Evelyn  tells  us  that  the  custom  was  not  alto- 
gether extinct  in  his  time,  near  his  dwelling  in  the  coun- 
ty of  Surrey,  "where  the  maidens  yearly  planted  and 
decked  the  graves  of  their  defunct  sweethearts  with  rose- 
bushes." And  Camden  likewise  remarks,  in  his  Britan- 
nia :  "  Here  is  also  a  certain  custom,  observed  time  out 
of  mind,  of  planting  rose-trees  upon  the  graves,  especially 
by  the  young  men  and  maids  who  have  lost  their  loves ; 
so  that  this  church-yard  is  now  full  of  them." 

When  the  deceased  had  been  unhappy  in  their  loves, 
emblems  of  a  more  gloomy  character  were  used,  such  as 
the  yew  and  cypress ;  and  if  flowers  were  strewn,  they 
were  of  the  most  melancholy  colors.     Thus,  in  poems  by 


BUBAL  FUNEBAL8.  201 

Thomas  Stanley,  Esq.  (published  in  1651),  is  the  follow- 
ing stanza : 

Yet  strew 

Upon  my  dismall  grave 
Such  offerings  as  you  have, 

Forsaken  cypresse  and  sad  yewe  ; 
For  kinder  flowers  can  take  no  birth 
Or  growth  from  such  unhappy  earth. 

In  "  The  Maid's  Tragedy,"  a  pathetic  little  air  is  intro- 
duced, illustrative  of  this  mode  of  decorating  the  funerals 
of  females  who  had  been  disappointed  in  love  : 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse. 

Of  the  dismall  yew, 
Maidens,  willow  branches  wear, 

Say  I  died  true. 

My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm, 

From  my  hour  of  birth, 
Upon  my  buried  body  lie 

Lightly,  gentle  earth. 

The  natural  effect  of  sorrow  over  the  dead  is  to  refine 
and  elevate  the  mind ;  and  we  have  a  proof  of  it  in  the 
purity  of  sentiment  and  the  unaffected  elegance  of 
thought  which  pervaded  the  whole  of  these  funeral  ob- 
servances. Thus,  it  was  an  especial  precaution  that  none 
but  sweet-scented  evergreens  and  flowers  should  be  em- 
ployed. The  intention  seems  to  have  been  to  soften  the 
horrors  of  the  tomb,  to  beguile  the  mind  from  brooding 
over  the  disgraces  of  perishing  mortality,  and  to  asso- 
ciate the  memory  of  the  deceased  with  the  most  delicate 


202  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  beautiful  objects  in  nature.  There  is  a  dismal  pro- 
cess going  on  in  the  grave,  ere  dust  can  return  to  its  kin- 
dred dust,  which  the  imagination  sinks  from  contemplat- 
ing; and  we  seek  still  to  think  of  the  form  we  have 
loved,  with  those  refined  associations  which  it  awakened 
when  blooming  before  us  in  youth  and  beauty.  "Lay 
her  i'  the  earth,"  says  Laertes,  of  his  virgin  sister, 

And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  spring ! 

Herrick,  also,  in  his  "  Dirge  of  Jephtha,"  pours  forth  a 
fragrant  flow  of  poetical  thought  and  image,  which  in  a 
manner  embalms  the  dead  in  the  recollections  of  the 

living. 

Sleep  in  thy  peace,  thy  bed  of  spice, 

And  make  this  place  all  Paradise  : 

May  sweets  grow  here  !  and  smoke  from  henc© 

Fat  frankincense. 
Let  balme  and  cassia  send  their  scent 
From  out  thy  maiden  monument. 

May  all  shie  maids  at  wonted  hours 

Come  forth  to  strew  thy  tombe  with  flowers  I 

May  virgins,  when  they  come  to  mourn, 

Male  incense  bum 
Upon  thine  altar  !  then  return 
And  leave  thee  sleeping  in  thine  urn. 

I  might  crowd  my  pages  with  extracts  from  the  older 
British  poets  who  wrote  when  these  rites  were  more 
prevalent,  and  delighted  frequently  to  allude  to  them; 


BUBAL  FUNEBAL8.  203 

but  I  have  already  quoted  more  than  is  necessary.  I 
cannot  however  refrain  from  giving  a  passage  from  Shak- 
speare,  even  though  it  should  appear  trite ;  which  illus- 
trates the  emblematical  meaning  often  conveyed  in  these 
floral  tributes  ;  and  at  the  same  time  possesses  that  magic 
of  language  and  appositeness  of  imagery  for  which  he 
stands  pre-eminent. 

With  fairest  flowers, 
Whilst  summer  lasts,  and  I  live  here,  Fidele, 
I'll  sweeten  thy  sad  grave  ;  thou  shalt  not  lack 
The  flower  that's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose  ;  nor 
The  azTired  harebell,  like  thy  veins  ;  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine  ;  whom  not  to  slander, 
Outsweeten'd  not  thy  breath. 

There  is  certainly  something  more  affecting  in  these 
prompt  and  spontaneous  offerings  of  nature,  than  in  the 
most  costly  monuments  of  art ;  the  hand  strews  the  flower 
while  the  heart  is  warm,  and  the  tear  falls  on  the  grave 
as  affection  is  binding  the  osier  round  the  sod;  but 
pathos  expires  under  the  slow  labor  of  the  chisel,  and  is 
chilled  among  the  cold  conceits  of  sculptured  marble. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted,  that  a  custom  so  truly 
elegant  and  touching  has  disappeared  from  general  use, 
and  exists  only  in  the  most  remote  and  insignificant  vil- 
lages. But  it  seems  as  if  poetical  custom  always  shuns 
the  walks  of  cultivated  society.  In  proportion  as  people 
grow  polite  they  cease  to  be  poetical.  They  talk  of  poe- 
try, but  they  have  learnt  to  check  its  free  impulses,  to 


204  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

distrust  its  sallying  emotions,  and  to  supply  its  most 
affecting  and  picturesque  usages,  by  studied  form  and 
pompous  ceremonial.  Few  pageants  can  be  more  stately 
and  frigid  than  an  English  funeral  in  town.  It  is  made 
up  of  show  and  gloomy  parade  ;  mourning  carriages, 
mourning  horses,  mourning  plumes,  and  hireling  mourn- 
ers, who  make  a  mockery  of  grief.  "  There  is  a  grave 
digged,"  says  Jeremy  Taylor,  "  and  a  solemn  mourning, 
and  a  great  talk  in  the  neighborhood,  and  when  the  dales 
are  finished,  they  shall  be,  and  they  shall  be  remembered 
no  more."  The  associate  in  the  gay  and  crowded  city  is 
soon  forgotten ;  the  hurrying  succession  of  new  intimates 
and  new  pleasures  effaces  him  from  our  minds,  and  the 
very  scenes  and  circles  in  which  he  moved  are  incessantly 
fluctuating.  But  funerals  in  the  country  are  solemnly 
impressive.  The  stroke  of  death  makes  a  wider  space  in 
the  village  circle,  and  is  an  awful  event  in  the  tranquil 
uniformity  of  rural  life.  The  passing  bell  tolls  its  knell 
in  every  ear ;  it  steals  with  its  pervading  melancholy  over 
hill  and  vale,  and  saddens  all  the  landscape. 

The  fixed  and  unchanging  features  of  the  country  also 
perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  friend  with  whom  we  once 
enjoyed  them ;  who  was  the  companion  of  our  most  re- 
tired v/alks,  and  gave  animation  to  every  lonely  scene. 
His  idea  is  associated  with  every  charm  of  nature ;  we 
hear  his  voice  in  the  echo  which  he  once  delighted  to 
awaken ;  his  spirit  haunts  the  grove  which  he  once  fre- 
quented ;  we  think  of  him  in  the  wild  upland  solitude,  or 


BUBAL  FCTNEBALS.  206 

amidst  the  pensive  beauty  of  the  valley.  In  the  fresh- 
ness of  joyous  morning,  we  remember  his  beaming  smiles 
and  bounding  gayety;  and  when  sober  evening  returns 
with  its  gathering  shadows  and  subduing  quiet,  we  call 
to  mind  many  a  twilight  hour  of  gentle  talk  and  sweet- 
souled  melancholy. 

Each  lonely  place  shall  him  restore, 

For  him  the  tear  be  duly  shed  ; 
Belov'd,  till  life  can  charm  no  more  ; 

And  mourn'd  till  pity's  self  be  dead. 

Another  cause  that  perpetuates  the  memory  of  the  de- 
ceased in  the  country  is  that  the  grave  is  more  imme- 
diately in  sight  of  the  survivors.  They  pass  it  on  their 
way  to  prayer,  it  meets  their  eyes  when  their  hearts  are 
softened  by  the  exercises  of  devotion ;  they  linger  about 
it  on  the  Sabbath,  when  the  mind  is  disengaged  from 
worldly  cares,  and  most  disposed  to  turn  aside  from 
present  pleasures  and  present  loves,  and  to  sit  down 
among  the  solemn  mementos  of  the  past.  In  North 
Wales  the  peasantry  kneel  and  pray  over  the  graves  of 
their  deceased  friends,  for  several  Sundays  after  the  in- 
terment ;  and  where  the  tender  rite  of  strewing  and  plant- 
ing flowers  is  still  practised,  it  is  always  renewed  on 
Easter,  Whitsuntide,  and  other  festivals,  when  the  season 
brings  the  companion  of  former  festivity  more  vividly  to 
mind.  It  is  also  invariably  performed  by  the  nearest 
relatives  and  friends ;  no  menials  nor  hirelings  are  em- 


206  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

ployed ;  and  if  a  neighbor  yields  assistance,  it  would  be 
deemed  an  insult  to  offer  compensation. 

I  have  dwelt  upon  this  beautiful  rural  custom,  because, 
as  it  is  one  of  the  last,  so  is  it  one  of  the  holiest  offices  of 
love.  The  grave  is  the  ordeal  of  true  affection.  It  is 
there  that  the  divine  passion  of  the  soul  manifests  its 
superiority  to  the  instinctive  impulse  of  mere  animal  at- 
tachment. The  latter  must  be  continually  refreshed  and 
kept  alive  by  the  presence  of  its  object ;  but  the  love  that 
is  seated  in  the  soul  can  live  on  long  remembrance.  The 
mere  inclinations  of  sense  languish  and  decline  with  the 
charms  which  excited  them,  and  turn  with  shuddering 
disgust  from  the  dismal  precincts  of  the  tomb;  but  it  is 
thence  that  truly  spiritual  affection  rises,  purified  from 
every  sensual  desire,  and  returns,  like  a  holy  flame,  to 
illumine  and  sanctify  the  heart  of  the  survivor. 

The  sorrow  for  the  dead  is  the  only  sorrow  from  which 
we  refuse  to  be  divorced.  Every  other  wound  we  seek  to 
heal — every  other  affliction  to  forget ;  but  this  wound  we 
consider  it  a  duty  to  keep  open — this  affliction  we  cherish 
and  brood  over  in  solitude.  Where  is  the  mother  who 
would  willingly  forget  the  infant  that  perished  like  a 
blossom  from  her  arms,  though  every  recollection  is  a 
pang?  "Where  is  the  child  that  would  willingly  forget 
the  most  tender  of  parents,  though  to  remember  be  but 
to  lament  ?  Who,  even  in  the  hour  of  agony,  would  for- 
get the  friend  over  whom  he  mourns  ?  Who,  even  when 
the  tomb  is  closing  upon  the  remains  of  her  he  most 


BUBAL  FUNEBAL8,  207 

loved ;  wlien  lie  feels  his  heart,  as  it  were,  crushed  in  the 
closing  of  its  portal;  would  accept  of  consolation  that 
must  be  bought  by  forgetfulness  ? — ^No,  the  love  which 
survives  the  tomb  is  one  of  the  noblest  attributes  of  the 
soul.  If  it  has  its  woes,  it  has  likewise  its  delights ;  and 
when  the  overwhelming  burst  of  grief  is  calmed  into  the 
gentle  tear  of  recollection ;  when  the  sudden  anguish  and 
the  convulsive  agony  over  the  present  ruins  of  all  that  we 
most  loved,  is  softened  away  into  pensive  meditation  on 
all  that  it  was  in  the  days  of  its  loveliness — who  would 
root  out  such  a  sorrow  from  the  heart  ?  Though  it  may 
sometimes  throw  a  passing  cloud  over  the  bright  hour 
of  gayety,  or  spread  a  deeper  sadness  over  the  hour  of 
gloom,  yet  who  would  exchange  it  even  for  the  song  ot 
pleasure,  or  the  burst  of  revelry  ?  No,  there  is  a  voice 
from  the  tomb  sweeter  than  song.  There  is  a  remem- 
brance of  the  dead  to  which  we  turn  even  from  the 
charms  of  the  living.  Oh,  the  grave ! — the  grave  ! — ^It 
buries  every  error — covers  every  defect — extinguishes 
every  resentment !  From  its  peaceful  bosom  spring  none 
but  fond  regrets  and  tender  recollections.  Who  can  look 
down  upon  the  grave  even  of  an  enemy^  and  not  feel  a 
compunctious  throb,  that  he  should  ever  have  warred 
with  the  poor  handful  of  earth  that  lies  mouldering  be- 
fore him. 

But  the  grave  of  those  we  loved — ^what  a  place  for 
meditation !  There  it  is  that  we  call  up  in  long  review 
the  whole  history  of  virtue  and  gentleness,  and  the  thou- 


208  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

sand  endearments  lavished  upon  us  almost  unheeded  in 
the  daily  intercourse  of  intimacy — there  it  is  that  we 
dwell  upon  the  tenderness,  the  solemn,  awful  tender- 
ness of  the  parting  scene.  The  bed  of  death,  with  all 
its  stifled  griefs — its  noiseless  attendance — its  mute, 
watchful  assiduities.  The  last  testimonies  of  expiring 
love!  The  feeble,  fluttering,  thrilling — oh!  how  thrill- 
ing!— pressure  of  the  hand!  The  faint,  faltering  ac- 
cents, struggling  in  death  to  give  one  more  assurance 
of  affection!  The  last  fond  look  of  the  glazing  eye, 
turned  upon  us  even  from  the  threshold  of  existence ! 

Ay,  go  to  the  grave  of  buried  love,  and  meditate ! 
There  settle  the  account  with  thy  conscience  for  every 
past  benefit  unrequited — every  past  endearment  unre- 
garded, of  that  departed  being,  who  can  never — ^never 
— never  return  to  be  soothed  by  thy  contrition ! 

If  thou  art  a  child,  and  hast  ever  added  a  sorrow 
to  the  soul,  or  a  furrow  to  the  silvered  brow  of  an. 
affectionate  parent — if  thou  art  a  husband,  and  hast 
ever  caused  the  fond  bosom  that  ventured  its  whole 
happiness  in  thy  arms  to  doubt  one  moment  of  thy 
kindness  or  thy  truth — if  thou  art  a  friend,  and  hast 
ever  wronged,  in  thought,  or  word,  or  deed,  the  spirit 
that  generously  confided  in  thee — if  thou  art  a  lover, 
and  hast  ever  given  one  unmerited  pang  to  that  true 
heart  which  now  lies  cold  and  still  beneath  thy  feet; 
— then  be  sure  that  every  unkind  look,  every  ungra- 
cious word,  every  ungentle  action,  will  come  thronging 


BUBAL  FUNEBALS,  209 

back  upon  thy  memory,  and  knocking  dolefully  at  thy 
soul- -then  be  sure  that  thou  wilt  lie  down  sorrowing 
and  repentant  on  the  grave,  and  utter  the  unheard  groan, 
and  pour  the  unavailing  tear  ;  more  deep,  more  bitter, 
because  unheard  and  unavailing. 

Then  weave  thy  chaplet  of  flowers,  and  strew  the 
beauties  of  nature  about  the  grave ;  console  thy  broken 
spirit,  if  thou  canst,  ^ith  these  tender,  yet  futile  tributes 
of  regret ;  but  take  warning  by  the  bitterness  of  this  thy 
contrite  affliction  over  the  dead,  and  henceforth  be  more 
faithful  and  affectionate  in  the  discharge  of  thy  duties  to 
the  living. 


In  writing  the  preceding  article,  it  was  not  intended 
to  give  a  full  detail  of  the  funeral  customs  of  the  English 
peasantry,  but  merely  to  furnish  a  few  hints  and  quota- 
tions illustrative  of  particular  rites,  to  be  appended,  by 
way  of  note,  to  another  paper,  which  has  been  withheld. 
The  article  swelled  insensibly  into  its  present  form,  and 
this  is  mentioned  as  an  apology  for  so  brief  and  casual 
a  notice  of  these  usages,  after  they  have  been  amply  and 
learnedly  investigated  in  other  works. 

I  must  observe,  also,  that  I  am  well  aware  that  this 
custom  of  adorning  graves  with  flowers  prevails  in  other 
countries  besides  England.  Indeed,  in  some  it  is  much 
more  general,  and  is  observed  even  by  the  rich  and  fash- 
ionable ;  but  it  is  then  apt  to  lose  its  simplicity,  and  to 
14 


210  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

degenerate  into  affectation.  Briglit,  in  his  travels  in 
Lower  Hungary,  tells  of  monuments  of  marble,  and  re- 
cesses formed  for  retirement,  with  seats  placed  among 
bowers  of  greenhouse  plants ;  and  that  the  graves  gener- 
ally are  covered  with  the  gayest  flowers  of  the  season. 
He  gives  a  casual  picture  of  filial  piety,  which  I  cannot 
but  transcribe  ;  for  I  trust  it  is  as  useful  as  it  is  delight- 
ful, to  illustrate  the  amiable  virtues  of  the  sex.  "  When 
I  was  at  Berlin,"  says  he,  "  I  followed  the  celebrated  Iff- 
land  to  the  grave.  Mingled  with  some  pomp,  you  might 
trace  much  real  feeling.  In  the  midst  of  the  ceremony, 
my  attention  was  attracted  by  a  young  woman,  who  stood 
on  a  mound  of  earth,  newly  covered  with  turf,  which  she 
anxiously  protected  from  the  feet  of  the  passing  crowd. 
It  was  the  tomb  of  her  parent ;  and  the  figure  of  this  af- 
fectionate daughter  presented  a  monument  more  striking 
than  the  most  costly  work  of  art." 

I  will  barely  add  an  instance  of  sepulchral  decoration 
that  I  once  met  with  among  the  mountains  of  Switzer- 
land. It  was  at  the  village  of  Gersau,  which  stands  on 
the  borders  of  the  Lake  of  Lucerne,  at  the  foot  of  Mount 
Rigi.  It  was  once  the  capital  of  a  miniature  republic, 
shut  up  between  the  Alps  and  the  Lake,  and  accessible 
on  the  land  side  only  by  foot-paths.  The  whole  force  of 
the  republic  did  not  exceed  six  hundred  fighting  men ; 
and  a  few  miles  of  circumference,  scooped  out  as  it  were 
from  the  bosom  of  the  mountains,  comprised  its  terri- 
tory.    The  village  of  Gersau  seemed  separated  from  the 


BUBAL  FUNEBALS.  211 

rest  of  the  world,  and  retained  the  golden  simplicity  of  a 
purer  age.  It  had  a  small  church,  with  a  burying-ground 
adjoining.  At  the  heads  of  the  graves  were  placed 
srosses  of  wood  or  iron.  On  some  were  affixed  minia- 
tures, rudely  executed,  but  evidently  attempts  at  like- 
nesses of  the  deceased.  On  the  crosses  were  hung 
chaplets  of  flowers,  some  withering,  others  fresh,  as  if 
occasionally  renewed.  I  paused  with  interest  at  this 
scene  ;  I  felt  that  I  was  at  the  source  of  poetical  descrip- 
tion, for  these  were  the  beautiful  but  unaffected  offerings 
of  the  heart  which  poets  are  fain  to  record.  In  a  gayer 
and  more  populous  place,  I  should  h^ve  suspected  them 
to  have  been  suggested  by  factitious  sentiment,  derived 
from  books ;  but  the  good  people  of  Gersau  knew  little 
of  books  ;  there  was  not  a  novel  nor  a  love  poem  in  the 
village  ;  and  I  question  whether  any  peasant  of  the  place 
dreamt,  while  he  was  twining  a  fresh  chaplet  for  the 
grave  of  his  mistress,  that  he  was  fulfilling  one  of  the 
most  fanciful  rites  of  poetical  devotion,  and  that  he  was 
practically  a  poet. 


THE    INN    KITCHEN. 

Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn  ? 

Falstatp. 

UEING  a  journey  that  I  once  made  through 
the  Netherlands,  I  arrived  one  evening  at  the 
Pomme  d'  Or,  the  principal  inn  of  a  small  Flem- 
ish village.  It  was  after  the  hour  of  the  table  d'hote,  so 
that  I  was  obliged  to  make  a  solitary  supper  from  the 
relics  of  its  ampler  board.  The  weather  was  chilly ;  I 
was  seated  alone  in  one  end  of  a  great  gloomy  dining- 
room,  and,  my  repast  being  over,  I  had  the  prospect 
before  me  of  a  long  dull  evening,  without  any  visible 
means  of  enlivening  it.  I  summoned  mine  host,  and  re- 
quested something  to  read ;  he  brought  me  the  whole 
literary  stock  of  his  household,  a  Dutch  family  Bible,  an 
almanac  in  the  same  language,  and  a  number  of  old  Paris 
newspapers.  As  I  sat  dozing  over  one  of  the  latter,  read- 
ing old  and  stale  criticisms,  my  ear  was  now  and  then 
struck  with  bursts  of  laughter  which  seemed  to  proceed 
from  the  kitchen.  Every  one  that  has  travelled  on  the 
continent  must  know  how  favorite  a  resort  the  kitchen  of 
a  country  inn  is  to  the  middle  and  inferior  order  of  trav- 
ellers ;   particularly  in  that  equivocal  kind  of  weather, 

212 


TEE  INN  KITCHEN.  213 

when  a  fire  becomes  agreeable  toward  evening.  I  threw 
aside  the  newspaper,  and  explored  my  way  to  the  kitchen, 
to  take  a  peep  at  the  group  that  appeared  to  be  so  merry. 
It  was  composed  partly  of  travellers  who  had  arrived 
some  hours  before  in  a  diligence,  and  partly  of  the  usual 
attendants  and  hangers-on  of  inns.  They  were  seated 
round  a  great  burnished  stove,  that  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  an  altar,  at  which  they  were  worshipping. 
It  was  covered  with  various  kitchen  vessels  of  resplend- 
ent brightness ;  among  which  steamed  and  hissed  a  huge 
copper  tea-kettle.  A  large  lamp  threw  a  strong  mass  of 
light  upon  the  group,  bringing  out  many  odd  features  in 
strong  relief.  Its  yellow  rays  partially  illumined  the  spa- 
cious kitchen,  dying  duskily  away  into  remote  corners ; 
except  where  they  settled  in  mellow  radiance  on  the 
broad  side  of  a  flitch  of  bacon,  or  were  reflected  back 
from  well-scoured  utensils,  that  gleamed  from  the  midst 
of  obscurity.  A  strapping  Flemish  lass,  with  long  golden 
pendants  in  her  ears,  and  a  necklace  with  a  golden  heart 
suspended  to  it,  was  the  presiding  priestess  of  the  temple. 
Many  of  the  company  were  furnished  with  pipes,  and 
most  of  them  with  some  kind  of  evening  potation.  I 
found  their  mirth  was  occasioned  by  anecdotes,  which  a 
little  swarthy  Frenchman,  with  a  dry  weazen  face  and 
large  whiskers,  was  giving  of  his  love  adventures ;  at  the 
end  of  each  of  which  there  was  one  of  those  bursts  of  hon- 
est unceremonious  laughter,  in  which  a  man  indulges  in 
that  temple  of  true  liberty,  an  inn. 


214  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

As  I  had  no  better  mode  of  getting  through  a  tedious 
blustering  evening,  I  took  my  seat  near  the  stove,  and 
listened  to  a  variety  of  traveller's  tales,  some  very  extra- 
vagant, and  most  very  dull.  All  of  them,  however,  have 
faded  from  my  treacherous  memory  except  one,  which  I 
will  endeavor  to  relate.  I  fear,  however,  it  derived  its 
chief  zest  from  the  manner  in  which  it  was  told,  and  the 
peculiar  air  and  appearance  of  the  narrator.  He  was  a 
corpulent  old  Swiss,  who  had  the  look  of  a  veteran  trav- 
eller. He  was  dressed  in  a  tarnished  green  travelling- 
jacket,  with  a  broad  belt  round  his  waist,  and  a  pair  of 
overalls,  with  buttons  from  the  hips  to  the  ankles.  He 
was  of  a  full,  rubicund  countenance,  with  a  double  chin, 
aquiline  nose,  and  a  pleasant,  twinkling  eye.  His  hair 
was  light,  and  curled  from  under  an  old  green  velvet 
travelling-cap  stuck  on  one  side  of  his  head.  He  was 
interrupted  more  than  once  by  the  arrival  of  guests,  or 
the  remarks  of  his  auditors ;  and  paused  now  and  then  to 
replenish  his  pipe ;  at  which  times  he  had  generally  a 
roguish  leer,  and  a  sly  joke  for  the  buxom  kitchen-maid. 

I  wish  my  readers  could  imagine  the  old  fellow  lolling 
in  a  huge  arm-chair,  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other  holding 
a  curiously  twisted  tobacco  pipe,  formed  of  genuine  ecume 
de  mer,  decorated  with  silver  chain  and  silken  tassel — his 
head  cocked  on  one  side,  and  the  whimsical  cut  of  the  eye 
occasionally,  as  he  related  the  following  story. 


THE   SPECTRE   BRIDEGROOM 

A  TRAVELLER'S  TALE  * 

He  that  supper  for  is  dight, 
He  lyes  full  cold,  I  trow,  this  night  I 
.  Yestreen  to  chamber  I  him  led, 
This  night  Gray-Steel  has  made  his  bed. 

Sir  Egek,  Sir  Grahame,  and  Sir  Gray-Steel. 

N  the  summit  of  one  of  the  heights  of  the  Oden- 
wald,  a  wild  and  romantic  tract  of  Upper  Ger- 
many, that  lies  not  far  from  the  confluence  of 
the  Main  and  the  Ehine,  there  stood,  many,  many  years 
since,  the  Castle  of  the  Baron  Yon  Landshort.  It  is  now 
quite  fallen  to  decay,  and  almost  buried  among  beech 
trees  and  dark  firs  ;  above  which,  however,  its  old  watch- 
tower  may  still  be  seen,  struggling,  like  the  former  pos- 
sessor I  have  mentioned,  to  carry  a  high  head,  and  look 
down  upon  the  neighboring  country. 

The  baron  was  a  dry  branch  of  the  great  family  of 
Eatzenellenbogen,t  and  inherited  the  relics  of  the  prop- 

*  The  erudite  reader,  well  versed  in  good-for-nothing  lore,  will  per- 
ceive that  the  above  Tale  must  have  been  suggested  to  the  old  Swiss  by  a 
little  French  anecdote,  a  circumstance  said  to  have  taken  place  at  Paris. 

f  i.  e.,  Cat's-Elbow.  The  name  of  a  family  of  those  parts  very  pow- 
erful in  former  times.  The  appellation,  we  are  told,  was  given  in  compli- 
ment to  a  peerless  dame  of  the  family,  celebrated  for  her  fine  arm. 

215 


216  THE  8KETGH-B00E. 

erty,  and  all  tlie  pride  of  his  ancestors.  Tliougli  tlie 
warlike  disposition  of  his  predecessors  had  much  im- 
paired the  family  possessions,  yet  the  baron  still  en- 
deavored to  keep  up  some  show  of  former  state.  The 
times  were  peaceable,  and  the  German  nobles,  in  general, 
had  abandoned  their  inconyenient  old  castles,  perched 
like  eagles'  nests  among  the  mountains,  and  had  built 
more  convenient  residences  in  the  valleys :  still  the 
baron  remained  proudly  drawn  up  in  his  little  fortress, 
cherishing,  with  hereditary  inveteracy,  all  the  old  family 
feuds ;  so  that  he  was  on  ill  terms  with  some  of  his  near- 
est neighbors,  on  account  of  disputes  that  had  happened 
between  their  great-great-grandfathers. 

The  baron  had  but  one  child,  a  daughter ;  but  nature, 
when  she  grants  but  one  child,  always  compensates  by 
making  it  a  prodigy ;  and  so  it  was  with  the  daughter  of 
the  baron.  All  the  nurses,  gossips,  and  country  cousins, 
assured  her  father  that  she  had  not  her  equal  for  beauty 
in  all  Germany ;  and  who  should  know  better  than  they  ? 
She  had,  moreover,  been  brought  up  with  great  care  un- 
der the  superintendence  of  two  maiden  aunts,  who  had 
spent  some  years  of  their  early  life  at  one  of  the  little 
German  courts,  and  were  skilled  in  all  the  branches  of 
knowledge  necessary  to  the  education  of  a  fine  lady. 
Under  their  instructions  she  became  a  miracle  of  accom- 
plishments. By  the  time  she  was  eighteen,  she  could 
embroider  to  admiration,  and  had  worked  whole  historic^ 
of  the  saints  in  tapestry,  with  such  strength  of  expres- 


THE  SPECTRE  BBIDEGBOOM.  ^211 

sion  in  their  countenances,  tliat  they  looked  like  so 
many  souls  in  purgatory.  She  could  read  without  great 
difficulty,  and  had  spelled  her  way  through  several 
church  legends,  and  almost  all  the  chivalric  wonders  of 
the  Heldenbuch.  She  had  even  made  considerable  pro- 
ficiency in  writing ;  could  sign  her  own  name  without 
missing  a  letter,  and  so  legibly,  that  her  aunts  could  read 
it  without  spectacles.  She  excelled  in  making  little  ele- 
gant good-for-nothing  lady-like  nicknacks  of  all  kinds ; 
was  versed  in  the  most  abstruse  dancing  of  the  day; 
played  a  number  of  airs  on  the  harp  and  guitar ;  and 
knew  all  the  tender  ballads  of  the  Minnelieders  by 
heart. 

Her  aunts,  too,  having  been  great  flirts  and  coquettes 
in  their  younger  days,  were  admirably  calculated  to  be 
vigilant  guardians  and  strict  censors  of  the  conduct  of 
their  niece ;  for  there  is  no  duenna  so  rigidly  prudent, 
and  inexorably  decorous,  as  a  superannuated  coquette. 
She  was  rarely  suffered  out  of  their  sight;  never  went 
beyond  the  domains  of  the  castle,  unless  well  attended, 
or  rather  well  watched ;  had  continual  lectures  read  to 
her  about  strict  decorum  and  implicit  obedience ;  and,  as 
to  the  men — pah ! — she  was  taught  to  hold  them  at  such 
a  distance,  and  in  such  absolute  distrust,  that,  unless 
properly  authorized,  she  would  not  have  cast  a  glance 
upon  the  handsomest  cavalier  in  the  world — no,  not  if  he 
were  even  dying  at  her  feet. 

The  good  effects  of  this  system  were  wonderfully  ap- 


218  THS;  SKETCH-BOOK 

parent.  The  young  lady  was  a  pattern  of  docility  and 
correctness.  While  others  were  wasting  their  sweetness 
in  the  glare  of  the  world,  and  liable  to  be  plucked  and 
thrown  aside  by  every  hand,  she  was  coyly  blooming  into 
fresh  and  lovely  womanhood  under  the  protection  of 
those  immaculate  spinsters,  like  a  rose-bud  blushing 
forth  among  guardian  thorns.  Her  aunts  looked  upon 
her  with  pride  and  exultation,  and  vaunted  that  though 
all  the  other  young  ladies  in  the  world  might  go  astray, 
yet,  thank  Heaven,  nothing  of  the  kind  could  happen  to 
the  heiress  of  Katzenellenbogen. 

But,  however  scantily  the  Baron  Yon  Landshort  might 
be  provided  with  children,  his  household  was  by  no 
means  a  small  one ;  for  Providence  had  enriched  him 
with  abundance  of  poor  relations.  They,  one  and  all, 
possessed  the  affectionate  disposition  common  to  humble 
relatives ;  were  wonderfully  attached  to  the  baron,  and 
took  every  possible  occasion  to  come  in  swarms  and  en- 
liven the  castle.  All  family  festivals  were  commemorated 
by  these  good  people  at  the  baron's  expense ;  and  when 
they  were  filled  with  good  cheer,  they  would  declare  that 
there  was  nothing  on  earth  so  delightful  as  these  family 
meetings,  these  jubilees  of  the  heart. 

The  baron,  though  a  small  man,  had  a  large  soul,  and 
it  swelled  with  satisfaction  at  the  consciousness  o|  being 
the  greatest  man  in  the  little  world  about  him.  He  loved 
to  tell  long  stories  about  the  dark  old  warriors  whose 
portraits  looked  grimly  down  from  the  walls  around,  and 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  219 

he  found  no  listeners  equal  to  those  that  fed  at  his  ex- 
pense. He  was  much  given  to  the  marvellous,  and  a  firm 
believer  in  all  those  supernatural  tales  with  which  every 
mountain  and  valley  in  Germany  abounds.  The  faith  of 
his  guests  exceeded  even  his  own :  they  listened  to  every 
tale  of  wonder  with  open  eyes  and  mouth,  and  never 
failed  to  be  astonished,  even  though  repeated  for  the 
hundredth  time.  Thus  lived  the  Baron  Yon  Landshort, 
the  oracle  of  his  table,  the  absolute  monarch  of  his  little 
territory,  and  happy,  above  all  things,  in  the  persuasion 
that  he  was  the  wisest  man  of  the  age. 

At  the  time  of  which  my  story  treats,  there  was  a  great 
family  gathering  at  the  castle,  on  an  affair  of  the  utmost 
importance  :  it  was  to  receive  the  destined  bridegroom  of 
the  baron's  daughter.  A  negotiation  had  been  carried  on 
between  the  father  and  an  old  nobleman  of  Bavaria,  to 
unite  the  dignity  of  their  houses  by  the  marriage  of  their 
children.  The  preliminaries  had  been  conducted  with 
proper  punctilio.  The  young  people  were  betrothed 
without  seeing  each  other ;  and  the  time  was  appointed 
for  the  marriage  ceremony.  The  young  Count  Yon  Al- 
tenburg  had  been  recalled  from  the  army  for  the  pur- 
pose, and  was  actually  on  his  way  to  the  baron's  to  re- 
ceive his  bride.  Missives  had  even  been  received  from 
him,  from  Wurtzburg,  where  he  was  accidentally  de- 
tained, mentioning  the  day  and  hour  when  he  might  be 
expected  to  arrive. 

The  castle  was  in  a  tumult  of  preparation  to  give  him 


220  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

a  suitable  welcome.  The  fair  bride  had  been  decked  out 
with  uncommon  care.  The  two  aunts  had  superintended 
her  toilet,  and  quarrelled  the  whole  morning  about  every 
article  of  her  dress.  The  young  lady  had  taken  advan- 
tage of  their  contest  to  follow  the  bent  of  her  own  taste ; 
and  fortunately  it  was  a  good  one.  She  looked  as  lovely 
as  youthful  bridegroom  could  desire ;  and  the  flutter  of 
expectation  heightened  the  lustre  of  her  charms. 

The  suffusions  that  mantled  her  face  and  neck,  the 
gentle  heaving  of  the  bosom,  the  eye  now  and  then  lost 
in  reverie,  all  betrayed  the  soft  tumult  that  was  going  on 
in  her  little  heart.  The  aunts  were  continually  hovering 
around  her ;  for  maiden  aunts  are  apt  to  take  great  inter- 
est in  affairs  of  this  nature.  They  were  giving  her  a 
world  of  staid  counsel  how  to  deport  herself,  what  to  say, 
and  in  what  manner  to  receive  the  expected  lover. 

The  baron  was  no  less  busied  in  preparations.  He 
had,  in  truth,  nothing  exactly  to  do ;  but  he  was  naturally 
a  fuming  bustling  little  man,  and  could  not  remain  pas- 
sive when  all  the  world  was  in  a  hurry.  He  worried 
from  top  to  bottom  of  the  castle  with  an  air  of  infinite 
anxiety;  he  continually  called. the  servants  from  their 
work  to  exhort  them  to  be  diligent ;  and  buzzed  about 
every  hall  and  chamber,  as  idly  restless  and  importunate 
as  a  blue-bottle  fly  on  a  warm  summer's  day. 

In  the  mean  time  the  fatted  calf  had  been  killed ;  the 
forests  had  rung  with  the  clamor  of  the  huntsmen;  the 
kitchen  was  crowded  with  good  cheer;  the  cellars  had 


^      >  THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  221 

yielded  up  whole  oceans  of  Bhein-wein  and  Ferne-wein ; 
and  even  tlie  great  Heidelburg  tun  had  been  laid  under 
contribution.  Every  thing  was  ready  to  receive  the  dis- 
tinguished guest  with  Saus  und  Braus  in  the  true  spirit 
of  German  hospitality — but  the  guest  delayed  to  make 
>his  appearance.  Hour  rolled  after  hour.  The  sun,  that 
had  poured  his  downward  rays  upon  the  rich  forest  of 
the  Odenwald,  noT^  just  gleamed  along  the  summits  of^ 
the  mountains.  The  baron  mounted  the  highest  tower, 
and  strained  his  eyes  in  hope  of  "catching  a  distant  sight 
of  the  count  and  his,  attendants.  Once  he  thought  he 
beheld  them ;  the  sound  of  horns  came  floating  from  the 
valley,  prolonged  by  the  mountain  echoes.  A  number 
of  horsemen  were  seen  far  below,  slowly  advancing  along 
the  road ;  but  when  they  had  nearly  reached  the  foot  of 
the  mountain,  they  suddenly  struck  off  in  a  different 
direction.  The  last  ray  of  sunshine  departed — the  bats 
began  to  flit  by  in  the  twilight — the  road  grew  dimmer 
and  dimmer  to  the  view ;  and  nothing  appeared  stirring 
in  it  but  now^nd  then  a  peasant  lagging  homeward  from 
his  labor. 

While  the  old  castle  of  Landshort  was  in  this  state  of 
perplexity,  a  very  interesting  scene  was  transacting  in  a 
different  part  of  the  Odenwald. 

The  young  Count  Yon  Altenburg  was  tranquilly  pur- 
suing his  route  in  that  sober  jog-trot  way,  in  which  a  man 
travels  toward  matrimony  when  his  friends  have  taken 
all  the  trouble  and  uncertainty  of  courtship  off  his  hands, 


222  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  a  bride  is  waiting  for  him,  as  certainly  as  a  dinner  at 
the  end  of  his  journey.  He  had  encountered  at  Wurtz- 
burg,  a  youthful  companion  in  arms,  with  whom  he  had 
seen  some  service  on  the  frontiers ;  Herman  Yon  Star- 
kenfaust,  one  of  the  stoutest  hands,  and  worthiest  hearts, ' 
of  German  chivalry,  who  was  now  returning  from  the 
army.  His  father's  castle  was  not  far  distant  from  the 
old  fortress  of  Landshort,  although  an  hereditary  feud 
rendered  the  families  hostile,  and  strangers  to  each  other, 

In  the  warm-hearted  moment  of  recognition,  the  young 
friends  related  all  their  past  adventures  and  fortunes, 
and  the  cr)unt  gave  the  whole  history  of  his  intended 
nuptials  with  a  young  lady  whom  he  had  never  seen,  but 
of  whose  charms  he  had  received  the  most  enrapturing 
descriptions. 

As  the  route  of  the  friends  lay  in  the  same  direction, 
they  agreed  to  perform  the  rest  of  their  journey  together ; 
and,  that  they  might  do  it  the  more  leisurely,  set  off  from 
Wurtzburg  at  a  nearly  hour,  the  count  having  given  di- 
rections for  his  retinue  to  follow  and  overtake  him. 

They  beguiled  their  wayfaring  with  recollections  of 
their  military  scenes  and  adventures ;  but  the  count  was 
apt  to  be  a  little  tedious,  now  and  then,  about  the  reputed 
charms  of  his  bride,  and  the  felicity  that  awaited  him. 

In  this  way  they  had  entered  among  the  mountains  of 
the  Odenwald,  and  were  traversing  one  of  its  most  lonely 
and  thickly-wooded  passes.  It  is  well  known  that  the 
forests  of  Germany  have  always  been  as  much  infested 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEOROOM.  223 

by  robbers  as  its  cfastles  by  spectres ;  and,  at  this  time;, 
the  former  were  particularly  numerous,  from  tlie  hordes 
of  disbanded  soldiers  wandering  about  the  country.  It 
will  not  ^appear  extraordinary,  therefore,  that  the  cava- 
liers were  attacked  by  a  gang  of  these  stragglers,  in  the 
midst  of  the  forest.  They  defended  themselves  with 
bravery,  but  were  nearly  overpowered,  when  the  count's 
retinue  arrived  to  their  assistance.  At  sight  of  them 
the  robbers  fled,  but  not  until  the  count  had  received 
a  mortal  wound.  He  was  slov/ly  and  carefully  conveyed 
back  to  the  city  of  Wurtzburg,  and  a  friar  summoned 
from  a  neighboring  convent,  who  was  famous  for  his 
skill  in  administering  to  both  soul  and  body;  but  half 
of  his  skill  was  superfluous ;  the  moments  of  the  unfor- 
tunate count  were  numbered. 

With  his  dying  breath  he  entreated  his  friend  to 
repair  instantly  to  the  castle  of  Landshort,  and  explain 
the  fatal  cause  of  his  not  keeping  his  appointment  with 
his  bride.  Though  not  the  most  ardent  of  lovers,  he 
was  one  of  the  most  punctilious  of  men,  and  appeared 
earnestly  solicitous  that  his  mission  should  be  speedily 
and  courteously  executed.  "Unless  this  is  done,"  said 
he,  "I  shall  not  sleep  quietly  in  my  grave!"  He  re- 
peated these  last  words  with  peculiar  solemnity.  A 
request,  at  a  moment  so  impressive,  admitted  no  hesi- 
tation, Starkenfaust  endeavored  to  soothe  him  to  calm- 
ness; promised  faithfully  to  execute  his  wish,  and  gave 
him  his  hand  in  solemn  pledge.     The  dying  man  pressed 


224  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

it  in  acknowledgment,  but  soon  lapsed  into  delirium— 
raved  about  his  bride — Ms  engagements — his  plighted 
word;  ordered  his  horse,  that  he  might  ride  to  the  cas- 
tle of  Landshort ;  and  expired  in  the  fancied  act  of  vaults 
ing  into  the  saddle. 

Starkenfaust  bestowed  a  sigh  and  a  soldier's  tear  on 
the  untimely  fate  of  his  comrade ;  and  then  pondered 
on  the  awkward  mission  he  had  undertaken.  His  heart 
was  heavy,  and  his  head  perplexed ;  for  he  was  to  pre- 
sent himself  an  unbidden  guest  among  hostile  people, 
and  to  damp  their  festivity  with  tidings  fatal  to  their 
hopes.  Still  there  were  certain  whisperings  of  curios- 
ity in  his  bosom  to  see  this  far-famed  beauty  of  Katz- 
enellenbogen,  so  cautiously  shut  up  from  the  world; 
for  he  was  a  passionate  admirer  of  the  sex,  and  there 
was  a  dash  of  eccentricity  and  enterprise  in  his  character 
that  made  him  fond  of  all  singular  adventure. 

Previous  to  his  departure  he  made  all  due  arrange- 
ments with  the  holy  fraternity  of  the  convent  for  the 
funeral  solemnities  of  his  friend,  who  was  to  be  buried 
in  the  cathedral  of  Wurtzburg,  near  some  of  his  illus- 
trious relatives ;  and  the  mourning  retinue  of  the  count 
took  charge  of  his  remains. 

It  is  now  high  time  that  we  should  return  to  the 
ancient  family  of  Katzenellenbogen,  who  were  impatient 
for  their  guest,  and  still  more  for  their  dinner;  and 
to  the  worthy  little  baron,  whom  we  left  airing  himself 
on  the  watch-tower. 


THE  8PEGTBE  BRIDEGROOM.  225 

Night  closed  in,  but  still  no  guest  arriyed.  The  baron 
descended  from .  the  tower  in  despair.  The  banquet, 
which  had  been  delayed  from  hour  to  hour,  could  no 
longer  be  postponed.  The  meats  were  already  over- 
done ;  -the  cook  in  '  an  agony ;  ^  and  the  whole  house- 
hold had  the  look  of  a  garrison  that  had  been  reduced 
by  famine.  The  baron  was  obliged  reluctantly  to  give 
orders  for  the  feast  without  the  presence  of  the  guest. 
All  were  seated  at  table,  and  just  on  the  point  of 
commencing,  when  the  sound  of  a  horn  from  without 
the  gate  gave  notice  of  the  approach  of  a  stranger. 
Another  long  blast  filled  the  old  courts  of  the  castle 
with  its  echoes,  and  was  answered  by  the  warder  from 
the  walls.  The  baron  hastened  to  receive  his  future 
son-in-law. 

The  drawbridge  had"  been  let  down,  and  the  stranger 
was  before  the  gate.  He  was  a  tall,  gallant  cavalier, 
mounted  on  a  black  steed.  His  countenance  was  pale, 
but  he  had  a  beaming,  romantic  eye,  and  an  air  of  stately 
melancholy.  The  baron  was  a  little  mortified  that  he 
should  have  come  in  this  simple,  solitary  style.  His  dig- 
nity for  a  moment  was  ruffled,  and  he  felt  disposed  to 
consider  it  a  want  of  proper  respect  for  the  important 
occasion,  and  the  important  family  v/ith  which  he  was  to 
be  connected.  He  pacified  himself,  however,  with  the 
conclusion,  that  it  must  hgCve  been  youthful  impatience 
which  had  induced  him  thus  to  spur  on  sooner  than  his 

attendants. 
15 


226  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  tlie  stranger,  "  to  break  in  upon  yon 
thus  unseasonably " 

Here  the  baron  interrupted  him  with  a  world  of  com- 
pliments and  greetings ;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  prided 
himself  upon  his  courtesy  and  eloquence.  The  stranger 
attempted,  once  or  twice,  to  stem  the  torrent  of  words, 
but  in  vain,  so  he  bowed  his  head  and  suffered  it  to  flow 
on.  By  the  time  the  baron  had  come  to  a  pause,  they 
had  reached  the  inner  court  of  the  castle ;  and  the  stran- 
ger was  again  about  to  speak,  when  he  was  once  more 
interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  the  female  part  of  the 
family,  leading  forth  the  shrinking  and  blushing  bride. 
He  gazed  on  her  for  a  moment  as  one  entranced;  it 
seemed  as  if  his  whole  soul  beamed  forth  in  the  gaze,  and 
rested  upon  that  lovely  form.  One  of  the  maiden  aunts 
whispered  something  in  her  ear;  she  made  an  effort  to 
speak ;  her  moist  blue  eye  was  timidly  raised ;  gave  a  shy 
glance  of  inquiry  on  the  stranger ;  and  was  cast  again  to 
the  ground.  The  words  died  away;  but  there  was  a 
sweet  smile  playing  about  her  lips,  and  a  soft  dimpling  of 
the  cheek  that  showed  her  glance  had  not  been  unsatis- 
factory. It  was  impossible  for  a  girl  of  the  fond  age  of  ^ 
eighteen,  highly  predisposed  for  love  and  matrimony,  not 
to  be  pleased  with  so  gallant  a  cavalier. 

The  late  hour  at  which  the  guest  had  arrived  left  no 
time  for  parley.  The  baron  was  peremptory,  and  defer- 
red all  particular  conversation  until  the  morning,  and  led 
the  way  to  the  untasted  banquet. 


THE  8PEGTBE  BRIDEGROOM.  ^^ 

It  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall  of  the  castle. 
Around  the  walls  hung  the  hard-favored  portraits  of  the 
heroes  of  the  house  of  Katzenellenbogen,  and  the  tro- 
phies which  they  had  gained  in-  the  field  and  in  the 
chase.  Hacked  corslets,  splintered  jousting  spears,  and 
tattered  banners,  were  mingleid  with  the  spoils  of  sylvan 
warfare ;  the  jaws  of  the  wolf,  and  the  tusks  of  the  boar, 
grinned  horribly  among  cross-bows  and  -battle-axes,  and 
a  huge  pair  of  antlers  branched  immediately  over  the 
head  of  the  youthful  bridegroom. 

The  cavalier  took  but  little  notice  of  the  company  or 
the  entertainment.  He  scarcely  tasted  the  banquet,  but 
seemed  absorbed  in  admiration  of  his  bride.  He  con- 
versed in  a  low  tone  that  could  not  be  overheard — for  the 
language  of  love  is  never  loud ;  but  where  is  the  female 
ear  so  dull  that  it  cannot  catch  the  softest  whisper  of  the 
lover?  There  was  a  mingled  tenderness  and  gravity  in 
his  manner,  that  appeared  to  have  a  powerful  effect  upon 
the  young  lady.  Her  color  came  and  went  as  she  lis- 
tened with  deep  attention.  Now  and  then  she  made 
some  blushing  reply,  and  when  his  eye  was  turned  away, 
she  would  steal  a  sidelong  glance  at  his  romantic  counte- 
nance, and  heave  a  gentle  sigh  of  tender  happiness.  It 
was  evident  that  the  young  couple  were  completely  enam- 
ored. The  aunts,  who  were  deeply  versed  in  the  myster- 
ies of  the  heart,  declared  that  they  had  fallen  in  love 
with  each  other  at  first  sight. 

The  feast  went  on  merrily,  or  at  least  noisily,  for  the 


228  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

guests  were  all  blessed  with  those  keen  appetites  that 
attend  upon  light  purses  and  mountain  air.  The  baron 
told  his  best  and  longest  stories,  and  never  had  he  told 
them  so  well,  or  with  such  great  effect.  If  there  was  any 
thing  marvellous,  his  auditors  were  lost  in  astonishment ; 
and  if  any  thing  facetious,  they  were  sure  to  laugh  exactly 
in  the  right  place.  The  baron,  it  is  true,  like  most  great 
men,  was  too  dignified  to  utter  any  joke  but  a  dull  one ; 
it  was  always  enforced,  however,  by  a  bumper  of  excel- 
lent Hockheimer  ;  and  even  a  dull  joke,  at  one's  own 
table,  served  up  with  jolly  old  wine,  is  irresistible.  Many 
good  things  were  said  by  poorer  and  keener  wits,  that 
would  not  bear  repeating,  except  on  similar  occasions; 
many  sly  speeches  whispered  in  ladies'  ears,  that  almost 
convulsed  them  with  suppressed  laughter ;  and  a  song  or 
two  roared  out  by  a  poor,  but  merry  and  broad-faced 
cousin  of  the  baron,  that  absolutely  made  the  maiden 
aunts  hold  up  their  fans. 

Amidst  all  this  revelry,  the  stranger  guest  maintained 
a  most  singular  and  unseasonable  gravity.  His  counte- 
nance assumed  a  deeper  cast  of  dejection  as  the  evening 
advanced;  and,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  even  the  baron's 
jokes  seemed  only  to  render  him  the  more  melancholy. 
At  times  he  was  lost  in  thought,  and  at  times  there  was 
a  perturbed  and  restless  wandering  of  the  eye  that  be- 
spoke a  mind  but  ill  at  ease.  His  conversations  with 
the  bride  became  more  and  more  earnest  and  mysteri- 
ous.    Lowering  clouds  began  to  steal  over  the  fair  seren-, 


THE  SPEGTBE  BRIDEGROOM.  229 

ity  of  her  brow,  and  tremors  to  run  through  her  tender 
frame. 

All  this  could  not  escape  the  notice  of  the  company. 
Their  gayetj  was  chilled  by  the  unaccountable  gloom  of 
the  bridegroom ;  their  spirits  were  infected ;  whispers 
and  glances  were  interchange,d,  .accompanied  by  shrugs 
and  dubious  shakes  of  the  head.  The  song  and  the  laugh 
grew  less  and  less  frequent ;  there  were  dreary  pauses  in 
the  conversation,  which  were  at  length  succeeded  by  wild 
tales  and  supernatural  legends.  One  dismal  story  pro- 
duced another  still  more  dismal,  and  the  baron  nearly 
frightened  some  of  the  ladies  into  hysterics  with  the  his- 
tory of  the  goblin  horseman  that  carried  away  the  fair 
Leonora ;  a  dreadful  story,  which  has  since  been  put  into 
excellent  verse,  and  is  read  and  believed  by  all  the  world. 

The  bridegroom  listened  to  this  tale  with  profound 
attention.  He  kept  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  baron, 
and,  as  the  story  drew  to  a  close,  began  gradually  to  rise 
from  his  seat,  growing  taller  and  taller,  until,  in  the 
baron's  entranced  eye,  he  seemed  almost  to  tower  into  a 
giant.  The  moment  the  tale  was  finished,  he  heaved  a 
deep  sigh,  and  took  a  solemn  farewell  of  the  company. 
They  were  all  amazement.  The  baron  was  perfectly 
thunder-struck. 

"What!  going  to  leave  the  castle  at  midnight?  why, 
every  thing  was  prepared  for  his  reception ;  a  chamber 
was  ready  for  him  if  he  wished  to  retire." 

The  stranger  shook  his  head  mournfully  and  mysteri- 


230  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ously ;  "  I  must  lay  my  head  in  a  different  chamber  to- 
night!  " 

There  was  something  in  this  reply,  and  the  tone  in 
which  it  was  uttered,  that  made  the  baron's  heart  mis- 
give him ;  but  he  rallied  his  forces,  and  repeated  his  hos- 
pitable entreaties. 

The  stranger  shook  his  head  silently,  but  positively,  at 
every  offer;  and,  waving  his  farewell  to  the  company, 
stalked  slowly  out  of  the  hall.  The  maiden  aunts  were 
absolutely  petrified — the  bride  hung  her  head,  and  a  tear 
stole  to  her  eye. 

The  baron  followed  the  stranger  to  the  great  court  of 
the  castle,  where  the  black  charger  stood  pawing  the 
earth,  and  snorting  with  impatience. — ^When  they  had 
reached  the  portal,  whose  deep  archway  was  dimly 
lighted  by  a  cresset,  the  stranger  paused,  and  addressed 
the  baron  in  a  hollow  tone  of  voice,  which  the  vaulted 
roof  rendered  still  more  sepulchral. 

"Now  that  we  are  alone,"  said  he,  "I  will  impart  to 
you  the  reason  of  my  going.  I  have  a  solemn,  an  indis- 
pensable engagement — " 

"  Why,"  said  the  baron,  "  cannot  you  send  some  one  in 
your  place  ?  " 

"  It  admits  of  no  substitute — I  must  attend  it  in  person 
—I  must  away  to  Wurtzburg  cathedral — " 

"Ay,"  said  the  baron,  plucking  up  spirit,  "but  not 
until  to-morrow — to-morrow  you  shall  take  your  bride 
there." 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  231 

"No!  no!"  replied  the  stranger,  with  tenfold  solemni- 
ty, "  my  engagement  is  with  no  bride — the  worms !  the 
worms  expect  me  !  J  am  a  dead  man — I  have  been  slain 
by  robbers— my  body  lies  at  Wurtzburg — at  midnight  I 
am  to  be  buried — the  grave  is  waiting  for  me — ^I  must 
keep  my  appointment !  " 

He  sprang  on  his  black  charger,  dashed  over  the  draw- 
bridge, and  the  clattering  of  his  horse's  hoofs  was  lost  in 
the  whistling  of  the  night  blast. 

The  baron  returned  to  the  hall  in  the  utmost  conster- 
nation, and  related  what  had  passed.  Two  ladies  fainted 
outright,  others  sickened  at  the  idea  of  having  banqueted 
with  a  spectre.  It  was  the  opinion  of  some,  that  this 
might  be  the  wild  huntsman,  famous  in  German  legend. 
Some  talked  of  mountain  sprites,  of  wood-demons,  and  of 
other  supernatural  beings,  with  which  the  good  people  of 
Germany  have  been  so  grievously  harassed  since  time 
immemorial.  One  of  the  poor  relations  ventured  to  sug- 
gest that  it  might  be  some  sportive  evasion  of  the  young 
cavalier,  and  that  the  very  gloominess  of  the  caprice 
seemed  to  accord  with  so  melancholy  a  personage.  This, 
however,  drew  on  him  the  indignation  _of  the  whole  com- 
pany, and  especially  of  the  baron,  who  looked  upon  him 
as  little  better  than  an  infidel ;  so  that  he  was  fain  to  ab- 
jure his  heresy  as  speedily  as  possible,  and  come  into  the 
faith  of  the  true  believers. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  the  doubts  entertained, 
they  were  completely  put  to  an  end  by  the  arrival,  next 


232  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

day,  of  regular  missives,  confirming  the  intelligence  oi 
the  young  count's  murder,  and  his  interment  in  Wurtz- 
burg  cathedral. 

The  dismay  at  the  castle  may  well  be  imagined.  The 
baron  shut  himself  up  in  his  chamber.  The  guests,  who 
had  come  to  rejoice  with  him,  could  not  think  of  aban- 
doning him  in  his  distress.  They  wandered  about  the 
courts,  or  collected  in  groups  in  the  hall,  shaking  their 
heads  and  shrugging  their  shoulders,  at  the  troubles  of 
so  good  a  man ;  and  sat  longer  than  ever  at  table,  and  ate 
and  drank  more  stoutly  than  ever,  by  way  of  keeping  up 
their  spirits.  But  the  situation  of  the  widowed  bride 
was  the  most  pitiable.  To  have  lost  a  husband  before 
she  had  even  embraced  him — and  such  a  husband  !  if  the 
very  spectre  could  be  so  gracious  and  noble,  what  must 
have  been  the  living  man.  She  filled  the  house  with 
lamentations. 

On  the  night  of  the  second  day  of  her  widowhood,  she 
had  retired  to  her  chamber,  accompanied  by  one  of  her 
aunts,  who  insisted  on  sleeping  with  her.  The  aunt,  who 
was  one  of  the  best  tellers  of  ghost  stories  in  all  Ger- 
many, had  just  been  recounting  one  of  her  longest,  and 
had  fallen  asleep  in  the  very  midst  of  it.  The  chamber 
was  remote,  and  overlooked  a  small  garden.  The  niece 
lay  pensively  gazing  at  the  beams  of  the  rising  moon,  as 
tliey  trembled  on  the  leaves  of  an  aspen-tree  before  the 
lattice.  The  castle-clock  had  just  tolled  midnight,  when 
a  soft  strain  of  music  stole  up  from  the  garden.    She  rose 


TEE  SPECTRE  BBIDEGBOOM.  238 

hastily  from  her  bed,  and  stepped  lightly  to  the  window. 
A  tall  figure  stood  among  Jhe  shadows  of  the  trees.  As 
it  raised  its  head,  a  beam  of  moonlight  fell  upon  the 
countenance.  Heaven  and  earth !  she  beheld  the  Spectre 
Bridegroom !  A  loud  shriek  at  that  moment  burst  upon 
her  ear,  and  her  aunt,  who  had  been  awakened  by  the 
music,  and  had  followed  her  silently  to  the  window,  fell 
into  her  arms.  When  she  looked  again,  the  spectre  had 
disappeared. 

Of  the  two  females,  the  aunt  now  required  the  most 
soothing,  for  she  was  perfectly  beside  herself  with  terror. 
As  to  the  young  lady,  there  was  something,  even  in  the 
spectre  of  her  lover,  that  seemed  endearing.  There  was 
still  the  semblance  of  manly  beauty;  and  though  the 
shadow  of  a  man  is  but  little  calculated  to  satisfy  the 
affections  of  a  love-sick  girl,  yet,  where  the  substance  is 
not  to  be  had,  even  that  is  consoling.  The  aunt  declared 
she  would  never  sleep  in  that  chamber  again ;  the  niece, 
for  once,  was  refractory,  and  declared  as  strongly  that 
she  would  sleep  in  no  other  in  the  castle  :  the  conse- 
quence was,  that  she  had  to  sleep  in  it  alone :  but  she 
drew  a  promise  from  her  aunt  not  to  relate  the  story  of 
the  spectre,  lest  she  should  be  denied  the  only  melan- 
choly pleasure  left  her  on  earth — that  of  inhabiting  the 
chamber  over  which  the  guardian  shade  of  her  lover  kept 
its  nightly  vigils. 

How  long  the  good  old  lady  would  have  observed  this 
promise  is  uncertain,  for  she  dearly  loved  to  talk  of  the 


234  '^BE  8KETUH-B00K, 

marvellous,  and  there  is  a  triumph  in  being  the  first  to 
tell  a  frightful  story ;  it  is,  however,  still  quoted  in  the, 
neighborhood,  as  a  memorable  instance  of  female  secrecy, 
that  she  kept  it  to  herself  for  a  whole  week ;  when  she 
was  suddenly  absolved  from  all  further  restraint,  by  in- 
telligence brought  to  the  breakfast  table  one  morning 
that  the  young  lady  was  not  to  be  found.  Her  room  was 
empty — the  bed  had  not  been  slept  in — the  window  was 
open,  and  the  bird  had  flown ! 

The  astonishment  and  concern  with  which  the  intelli- 
gence was  received,  can  only  be  imagined  by  those  who 
have  witnessed  the  agitation  which  the  mishaps  of  a 
great  man  cause  among  his  friends.  Even  the  poor  rela- 
tions paused  for  a  moment  from  the  indefatigable  labors  of 
the  trencher ;  when  the  aunt,  who  had  at  first  been  struck 
speechless,  wrung  her  hands,  and  shrieked  out,  "The 
goblin !  the  goblin !  she's  carried  away  by  the  goblin." 

In  a  few  words  she  related  the  fearful  scene  of  the 
garden,  and  concluded  that  the  spectre  must  have  car- 
ried off  his  bride.  Two  of  the  domestics  corroborated 
the  opinion,  for  they  had  heard  the  clattering  of  a 
horse's  hoofs  down  the  mountain  about  midnight,  and 
had  no  doubt  that  it  was  the  spectre  on  his  black 
charger,  bearing  her  away  to  the  tomb.  All  present 
were  struck  with  the  direful  probability;  for  events  of 
the  kind  are  extremely  common  in  Germany,  as  many 
well  authenticated  histories  bear  witness. 

What   a  lamentable   situation  was   that   of  the   poor 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEOBOOM.  235 

baron!  Wliat  a  heart-rending^  dilemma  for  a  fond 
father,  and  a  member  of  the  great  family  of  Katzen* 
ellenbogen!  His  only  daughter  had  either  been  rapt 
away  to  the  grave,  or  he  was  to  have  some  wood-de- 
mon for  a  son-in-law,  and,  perchance,  a'  troop  of  goblin 
grandchildren.  As  usual,  he  was  completely  bewildered, 
and  all  the  castle  in  an  uproar.  The  men  were  ordered 
to  take  horse,  and  scour  every  road  and  path  and  glen 
of  the  Odenwald.  The  baron  himself  had  just  drawn 
on  his  jack-boots,  girded  on  his  sword,  and  was  about 
to  mount  his  steed  to  sally  forth  on  the  doubtful  quest, 
when  he  was  brought  to  a  pause  by  a  new  apparition.  A 
lady  was  seen  approaching  the  castle,  mounted  on  a  pal- 
frey, attended  by  a  cavalier  on  horseback.  She  galloped 
up  to  the  gate,  sprang  from  her  horse,  and  falling  at  the 
baron's  feet,  embraced  his  knees.  It  was  his  lost  daugh- 
ter, and  her  companion — the  Spectre  Bridegroom !  The 
baron  was  astounded.  He  looked  at  his  daughter,  then 
at  the  spectre,  and  almost  doubted  the  evidence  of  his 
senses.  The  latter,  too,  was  wonderfully  improved  in  his 
appearance  since  his  visit  to  the  world  of  spirits.  His 
dress  was  splendid,  and  set  off  a  noble  figure  of  manly 
symmetry.  He  was  no  longer  pale  and  melancholy.  His 
fine  countenance  was  flushed  with  the  glow  of  youth,  and 
joy  rioted  in  his  large  dark  eye. 

The  mystery  was  soon  cleared  up.  The  cavalier  (for, 
in  truth,  as  you  must  have  known  all  the  while,  he  was 
no  goblin)  announced  himself  as  Sir  Herman  Von  Stark- 


2a6  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

enfaust.  He  related  liis  adventure  with  the  young  count. 
He  told  how  he  had  hastened  to  the  castle  to  deliver  the 
unwelcome  tidings,  but  that  the  eloquence  of  the  baron 
had  interrupted  him  in  every  attempt  to  tell  his  tale. 
How  the  sight  of  the  bride  had  completely  captivated 
him,  and  that  to  pass  a  few  hours  near  her,  he  had 
tacitly  suffered  the  mistake  to  continue.  How  he  had 
been  sorely  perplexed  in  what  way  to  make  a  decent 
retreat,  until  the  baron's  goblin  stories  had  suggested 
his  eccentric  exit.  How,  fearing  the  feudal  hostility  of 
the  family,  he  had  repeated  his  visits  by  stealth — had 
haunted  the  garden  beneath  the  young  lady's  window — 
had  wooed — had  won — had  borne  away  in  triumph — and, 
in  a  word,  had  wedded  the  fair. 

Under  any  other  circumstances  the  baron  would  have 
been  inflexible,  for  he  was  tenacious  of  paternal  author- 
ity, and  devoutly  obstinate  in  all  family  feuds;  but  he 
loved  his  daughter ;  he  had  lamented  her  as  lost ;  he 
rejoiced  to  find  her  still  alive  ;  and,  though  her  husband 
was  of  a  hostile  house,  yet,  thank  Heaven,  he  was  not  a 
goblin.  There  was  something,  it  must  be  acknowledged, 
that  did  not  exactly  accord  with  his  notions  of  strict 
veracity,  in  the  joke  the  knight  had  passed  upon  him 
of  his  being  a  dead  man ;  but  several  old  friends  present, 
who  had  served  in  the  wars,  assured  him  that  every 
stratagem  was  excusable  in  love,  and  that  the  cavalier 
was  entitled  to  especial  privilege,  having  lately  served 
as  a  trooper. 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  237 

Matters,  therefore,  were  happily  arranged.  The  baron 
pardoned  the  young  couple  on  the  spot.  The  revels  at 
the  castle  were  resumed.  The  poor  relations  overwhelmed 
this  new  member  of  the  family  with  loving  kindness ;  he 
was  so  gallant,  so  generous — and  so  ri6h.  The  aunts,  it 
is  true,  were  somewhat  scandalized  that  their  system  of 
strict  seclusion,  and  passive  obedience  should  be  so  badly 
exemplified,  but  attributed  it  all  to  their  negligence  in 
not  having  the  windows  grated.  One  of  them  was  partic- 
ularly mortified  at  having  her  marvellous  story  marred, 
and  that  the  only  spectre  she  had  ever  seen  should  turn 
out  a  counterfeit ;  but  the  niece  seemed  perfectly  happy 
at  having  found  him  substantial  flesh  and  blood — and  so 
the  story  ends. 


WESTMINSTER    ABBEY. 

When  I  behold,  with  deep  astonishment, 
To  famous  Westminster  how  there  resorte 
Living  in  brasse  or  stoney  monument, 
The  princes  and  the  worthies  of  all  sorts  ; 
Doe  not  I  see  reformde  nobilitie, 
Without  contempt,  or  pride,  or  ostentation, 
And  looke  upon  oilenselesse  majesty, 
Naked  of  pomp  or  earthly  domination? 
And  how  a  play-game  of  a  painted  stone 
Contents  the  quiet  now  and  silent  sprites, 
Whome  all  the  world  which  late  they  stood  upon 
Could  not  content  or  quench  their  appetites. 

Life  is  a  frost  of  cold  f elicitie, 

And  death  the  thaw  of  all  our  vanitie. 

Christolero's  Epigrams,  by  T.  B.    1598. 

N   one  of  those   sober  and  rather  melancholy 

days,  in  the  latter  part  of  Autumn,  when  the 

shadows  of  morning  and  evening  almost  mingle 

together,  and  throw  a  gloom  over  the  decline  of  the  year, 

I  passed  several  hours  in  rambling  about  Westminster 

Abbey.     There  was   something  congenial  to  the  season 

in  the  mournful  magnificence  of  the  old  pile ;  and,  as  I 

passed  its  threshold,  seemed  like  stepping  back  into  the 

regions  of  antiquity,  and  losing  myself  among  the  shades 

of  former  ages. 

288 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  239 

I  entered  from  the  inner  court  of  Westminster  School, 
through  a  long,  low,  vaulted  passage,  that  had  an  almost 
subterranean  look,  being  dimly  lighted  in  one  part  by 
circular  perforations  in  the  massive  walls.  Through  this 
dark  avenue  I  had  a  distant  view  of  the  cloisters,  with 
the  figure  of  an  old  verger,  in  his  black  gown,  moving 
along  their  shadowy  vaults,  and  seeming  like  a  spectre 
from  one  of  the  neighboring  tombs.  The  approach  to  the 
abbey  through  these  gloomy  monastic  remains  prepares 
the  mind  for  its  solemn  contemplation.  The  cloisters 
still  retain  something  of  the  quiet  and  seclusion  of  for- 
mer days.  The  gray  walls  are  discolored  by  damps,  and 
crumbling  with  age ;  a  coat  of  hoary  moss  has  gathered 
over  the  inscriptions  of  the  mural  monuments,  and  ob- 
scured the  death's  heads,  and  other  funereal  emblems. 
The  sharp  touches  of  the  chisel  are  gone  from  the  rich 
tracery  of  the  arches  ;  the  roses  which  adorned  the  key- 
stones have  lost  their  leafy  beauty;  every  thing  bears 
marks  of  the  gradual  dilapidations  of  time,  which  yet 
has  something  touching  and  pleasing  in  its  very  decay. 

The  sun  was  pouring  down  a  yellow  autumnal  ray  into 
the  square  of  the  cloisters ;  beaming  upon  a  scanty  plot 
of  grass  in  the  centre,  and  lighting  up  an  angle  of  the 
vaulted  passage  with  a  kind  of  dusky  splendor.  From 
between  the  arcades,  the  eye  glanced  up  to  a  bit  of  blue 
sky  or  a  passing  cloud ;  and  beheld  the  sun-gilt  pinnacles 
of  the  abbey  towering  into  the  azure  heaven. 

As  I  paced  the  cloisters,  sometimes  contemplating  this 


240  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

mingled  picture  of  glory  and  decay,  and  sometimes  en- 
deavoring to  decipher  the  inscriptions  on  the  tombstones, 
which  formed  the  pavement  beneath  my  feet,  my  eye 
was  attracted  to  three  figures,  rudely  carved  in  relief,  but 
nearly  worn  away  by  the  footsteps  of  many  generations. 
They  were  the  effigies  of  three  of  the  early  abbots ;  the 
epitaphs  were  entirely  effaced;  the  names  alone  re- 
mained, having  no  doubt  been  renewed  in  later  times. 
(Vitalis  Abbas.  1082,  and  Gislebertus  Crispinus.  Abbas. 
1114,  and  Laurentius.  Abbas.  1176.)  I  remained  some 
little  while,  musing  over  these  casual  relics  of  antiquity, 
thus  left  like  wrecks  upon  this  distant  shore  of  time,  tell- 
ing no  tale  but  that  such  beings  had  been,  and  had  per- 
ished; teaching  no  moral  but  the  futility  of  that  pride 
which  hopes  still  to  exact  homage  in  its  ashes,  and  to 
live  in  an  inscription.  A  little  longer,  and  even  these 
faint  records  will  be  obliterated,  and  the  monument  will 
cease  to  be  a  memorial.  "Whilst  I  was  yet  looking  down 
upon  these  grave-stones,  I  was  roused  by  the  sound  of 
the  abbey  clock,  reverberating  from  buttress  to  buttress, 
and  echoing  among  the  cloisters.  It  is  almost  startling 
to  hear  this  warning  of  departed  time  sounding  among 
the  tombs,  and  telling  the  lapse  of  the  hour,  which,  like 
a  billow,  has  rolled  us  onward  towards  the  grave.  I  pur- 
sued my  walk  to  an  arched  door  opening  to  the  interior 
of  the  abbey.  On  entering  here,  the  magnitude  of  the 
building  breaks  fully  upon  the  mind,  contrasted  with  the 
vaults  of  the  cloisters.     The  eyes  gaze  with  wonder  at 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY,  241 

clustered  columns  of  gigantic  dimensions,  with  arches 
springing  from  them  to  such  an  amazing  height ;  and  man 
wandering  about  their  bases,  shrunk  into  insignificance 
in  comparison  with  his  own  handiwork.  The  spacious- 
ness and  gloom  of  this  vast  edifice  produce  a  profound 
and  mysterious  awe.  We  step  cautiously  and  softly 
about,  as  if  fearful  of  disturbing  the  hallowed  silence  of 
the  tomb ;  while  every  footfall  whispers  along  the  walls, 
and  chatters  among  the  sepulchres,  making  us  more  sen- 
sible of  the  quiet  we  have  interrupted. 

It  seems  as  if  the  awful  nature  of  the  place  presses 
down  upon  the  soul,  and  hushes  the  beholder  into 
noiseless  reverence.  We  feel  that  we  are  surrounded 
by  the  congregated  bones  of  the  great  men  of  past 
times,  who  have  filled  history  with  their  deeds,  and  the 
earth  with  their  renown. 

And  yet  it  almost  provokes  a  smile  at  the  vanity  of 
human  ambition,  to  see  how  they  are  crowded  together 
and  jostled  in  the  dust ;  what  parsimony  is  observed 
in  doling  out  a  scanty  nook,  a  gloomy  corner,  a  little 
portion  of  earth,  to  those,  whom,  when  alive,  kingdoms 
could  not  satisfy ;  and  how  many  shapes,  and  forms, 
and  artifices,  are  devised  to  catch  the  casual  notice  of 
the  passenger,  and  save  from  forgetfulness,  for  a  few 
short  years,  a  name  which  once  aspired  to  occupy  ages 
of  the  world's  thought  and  admiration. 

I  passed  some  time  in  Poet's  Corner,  which  occupies 

an  end  of  one  of  the  transepts  or  cross  aisles  of  the 
16 


242  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

abbey.  The  monuments  are  generally  simple ;  for  the 
lives  of  literary  men  afford  no  striking  themes  for  the 
sculptor.  Shakspeare  and  Addison  have  statues  erected 
to  their  memories ;  but  the  greater  part  have  busts, 
medallions,  and  sometimes  mere  inscriptions.  Notwith- 
standing the  simplicity  of  these  memorials,  I  have  al- 
ways observed  that  the  visitors  to  the  abbey  remained 
longest  about  them.  A  kinder  and  fonder  feeling  takes 
place  of  that  cold  curiosity  or  vague  admiration  with 
which  they  gaze  on  the  splendid  monuments  of  the 
great  and  the  heroic.  They  linger  about  these  as  about 
the  tombs  of  friends  and  companions;  for  indeed  there 
is  something  of  companionship  between  the  author  and 
the  reader.  Other  men  are  known  to  posterity  only 
through  the  medium  of  history,  which  is  continually 
growing  faint  and  obscure :  but  the  intercourse  be- 
tween the  author  and  his  fellow-men  is  ever  new,  ac- 
tive, and  immediate.  He  has  lived  for  them  more  than 
for  himself;  he  has  sacrificed  surrounding  enjoyments, 
and  shut  himself  up  from  the  delights  of  social  life, 
that  he  might  the  more  intimately  commune  with  dis- 
tant minds  and  distant  ages.  "Well  may  the  world  cher- 
ish his  renown ;  for  it  has  been  purchased,  not  by  deeds 
of  violence  and  blood,  but  by  the  diligent  dispensation  of 
pleasure.  Well  may  posterity  be  grateful  to  his  memory; 
for  he  has  left  it  an  inheritance,  not  of  empty  names  and 
sounding  actions,  but  whole  treasures  of  wisdom,  bright 
gems  of  thought,  and  golden  veins  of  language. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  243 

From  Poet's  Corner  I  continued  my  stroll  towards  tliat 
part  of  the  abbey  which  contains  the  sepulchres  of  the 
kings.  I  wandered  among  v/hat  once  were  chapels,  but 
which  are  now  occupied  by  the  tombs  and  monuments  of 
the  great.  At  every  turn  I  met  with  some  illustrious 
name  ;  or  the  cognizance  of  some  powerful  house  re- 
nowned in  history.  As  the  eye  darts  into  these  dusky 
chambers  of  death,  it  catches  glimpses  of  quaint  effi- 
gies ;  some  kneeling  in  niches,  as  if  in  devotion ;  others 
stretched  upon  the  tombs,  with  hands  piously  pressed 
together :  warriors  in  armor,  as  if  reposing  after  battle ; 
prelates  with  crosiers  and  mitres ;  and  nobles  in  robes 
and  coronets,  lying  as  it  v/ere  in  state.  In  glancing  over 
this  scene,  so  strangely  populous,  yet  where  every  form 
is  so  still  and  silent,  it  seems  almost  as  if  we  were  tread- 
ing a  mansion  of  that  fabled  city,  where  every  being  had 
been  suddenly  transmuted  into  stone. 

I  paused  to  contemplate  a  tomb  on  which  lay  the  effigy 
of  a  knight  in  complete  armor.  A  large  buckler  was  on 
one  arm ;  the  hands  were  pressed  together  in  supplica- 
tion upon  the  breast :  the  face  was  almost  covered  by  the 
morion ;  the  legs  were  crossed,  in  token  of  the  warrior's 
having  been  engaged  in  the  holy  war.  It  was  the  tomb 
of  a  crusader ;  of  one  of  those  military  enthusiasts,  who 
so  strangely  mingled  religion  and  romance,  and  whose 
exploits  form  the  connecting  link  between  fact  and  fic- 
tion; between  the  history  and  the  fairy  tale.  There  is 
something  extremely  picturesque  in  the  tombs  of  these 


244  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

adventurers,  decorated  as  they  are  with  rude  armorial 
bearings  and  Gothic  sculpture.  Thej  comport  with  the 
antiquated  chapels  in  which  they  are  generally  found; 
and  in  considering  them,  the  imagination  is  apt  to  kindle 
with  the  legendary  associations,  the  romantic  fiction,  the 
chivalrous  pomp  and  pageantry,  which  poetry  has  spread 
over  the  wars  for  the  sepulchre  of  Christ.  They  are  the 
relics  of  times  utterly  gone  by;  of  beings  passed  from 
recollection ;  of  customs  and  manners  with  which  ours 
have  no  affinity.  They  are  like  objects  from  some  strange 
and  distant  land,  of  which  we  have  no  certain  knowledge, 
and  about  which  all  our  conceptions  are  vague  and  vision- 
ary. There  is  something  extremely  solemn  and  awful 
in  those  effigies  on  Gothic  tombs,  extended  as  if  in  the 
sleep  of  death,  or  in  the  supplication  of  the  dying  hour. 
They  have  an  effect  infinitely  more  impressive  on  my 
feelings  than  the  fanciful  attitudes,  the  over -wrought 
conceits,  and  allegorical  groups,  which  abound  on  modern 
monuments.  I  have  been  struck,  also,  with  the  superi- 
ority of  many  of  the  old  sepulchral  inscriptions.  There 
was  a  noble  way,  in  former  times,  of  saying  things  sim- 
ply, and  yet  saying  them  proudly ;  and  I  do  not  know  an 
epitaph  that  breathes  a  loftier  consciousness  of  family 
worth  and  honorable  lineage,  than  one  which  affirms,  of 
a  noble  house,  that  "  all  the  brothers  were  brave,  and  all 
the  sisters  virtuous." 

In  the  opposite   transept  to  Poet's  Corner  stands  a 
monument  which  is  among  the  most  renowned  achieve- 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.      .  245 

ments  of  modern  art ;  but  which  to  me  appears  horrible 
rather  than  sublime.  It  is  the  tomb  of  Mrs.  Nightingale, 
by  Eoubillac.  The  bottom  of  the  monument  is  repre- 
sented as  throwing  open  its  marble  doors,  and  a  sheeted 
skeleton  is  starting  forth.  The  shroud  is  falling  from  its 
fleshless  frame  as  he  launches  his  dart  at  his  victim. 
She  is  sinking  into  her  affrighted  husband's  arms,  who 
strives,  with  vain  and  frantic  effort,  to  avert  the  blow. 
The  whole  is  executed  with  terrible  truth  and  spirit ;  we 
almost  fancy  we  hear  the  gibbering  yell  of  triumph  burst- 
ing from  the  distended  jaws  of  the  spectre. — But  why 
should  we  thus  seek  to  clothe  death  with  unnecessary 
terrors,  and  to  spread  horrors  round  the  tomb  of  those 
we  love?  The  grave  should  be  surrounded  by  every 
thing  that  might  inspire  tenderness  and  veneration  for 
the  dead ;  or  that  might  win  the  living  to  virtue.  It  is 
the  place,  not  of  disgust  and  dismay,  but  of  sorrow  and 
meditation. 

While  wandering  about  these  gloomy  vaults  and  silent 
aisles,  studying  the  records  of  the  dead,  the  sound  of 
busy  existence  from  without  occasio.nally  reaches  the 
ear ; — the  rumbling  of  the  passing  equipage  ;  the  murmur 
of  the  multitude ;  or  perhaps  the  light  laugh  of  pleas- 
ure. The  contrast  is  striking  with  the  deathlike  repose 
around :  and  it  has  a  strange  effect  upon  the  feelings, 
thus  to  hear  the  surges  of  active  life  hurrying  along,  and 
beating  against  the  very  walls  of  the  sepulchre. 

I  continued  in  this  way  to  move  from  tomb  to  tomb, 


246  ^-S"^  8KET0H-B00K. 

and  from  chapel  to  chapel.  The  day  was  gradually  wear- 
ing away ;  the  distant  tread  of  loiterers  about  the  abbey 
grew  less  and  less  frequent ;  the  sweet-tongued  bell  was 
summoning  to  evening  prayers ;  and  I  saw  at  a  distance 
the  choristers,  in  their  white  surplices,  crossing  the  aisle 
and  entering  the  choir.  I  stood  before  the  entrance  to 
Henry  the  Seventh's  chapel.  A  flight  of  steps  lead  up  to 
it,  through  a  deep  and  gloomy,  but  magnificent  arch. 
Great  gates  of  brass,  richly  and  delicately  wrought,  turn 
heavily  upon  their  hinges,  as  if  proudly  reluctant  to  ad- 
mit the  feet  of  common  mortals  into  this  most  gorgeous 
of  sepulchres. 

On  entering,  the  eye  is  astonished  by  the  pomp  of  ar- 
chitecture, and  the  elaborate  beauty  of  sculptured  de- 
tail. The  very  walls  are  wrought  into  universal  orna- 
ment, incrusted  with  tracery,  and  scooped  into  niches, 
crowded  with  the  statues  of  saints  and  martyrs.  Stone 
seems,  by  the  cunning  labor  of  the  chisel,  to  have  been 
robbed  of  its  weight  and  density,  suspended  aloft,  as  if 
by  magic,  and  the  fretted  roof  achieved  with  the  wonder 
ful  minuteness  and  airy  security  of  a  cobweb. 

Along  the  sides  of  the  chapel  are  the  lofty  stalls  of  uhe 
Knights  of  the  Bath,  richly  carved  of  oak,  though  with 
the  grotesque  decorations  of  Gothic  architecture.  On 
the  pinnacles  of  the  stalls  are  affixed  the  helmets  and 
crests  of  the  knights,  with  their  scarfs  and  swords ;  and 
above  them  are  suspended  their  banners,  emblazoned 
with  armorial  bearings,  and  contrasting  the  splendor  of 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  247 

gold  and  purple  and  crimson,  with  the  cold  gray  fretwork 
of  the  roof.  In  the  midst  of  this  grand  mausoleum 
stands  the  sepulchre  of  its  founder, — his  effigy,  with  that 
of  his  queen,  extended  on  a  sumptuous  tomb,  and  the 
whole  surrounded  by  a  superbly-wrought  brazen  railing. 

There  is  a  sad  dreariness  in  this  magnificence;  this 
strange  mixture  of  tombs  and  trophies;  these  emblems 
of  living  and  aspiring  ambition,  close  beside  mementos 
which  show  the  dust  and  oblivion  in  which  all  must 
sooner  or  later  terminate.  Nothing  impresses  the  mind 
with  a  deeper  feeling  of  loneliness,'  than  to  tread  the 
silent  and  deserted  scene  of  former  throng  and  pageant. 
On  looking  round  on  the  vacant  stalls  of  the  knights  and 
their  esquires,  and  on  the  rows  of  dusty  but  gorgeous 
banners  that  were  once  borne  before  them,  my  imagina- 
tion conjured  up  the  scene  when  this  hall  was  bright 
with  the  valor  and  beauty  of  the  land ;  glittering  with  the 
splendor  of  jewelled  rank  and  military  array ;  alive  with 
the  tread  of  many  feet  and  the  hum  of  an  admiring  mul- 
titude. All  had  passed  away ;  the  silence  of  death  had 
settled  again  upon  the  place,  interrupted  only  by  the 
casual  chirping  of  birds,  which  had  found  their  way  into 
the  chapel,  and  built  their  nests  among  its  friezes  and 
pendants — sure  signs  of  solitariness  and  desertion. 

When  I  read  the  names  inscribed  on  the  banners,  they 
were  those  of  men  scattered  far  and  wide  about  the 
world,  some  tossing  upon  distant  seas ;  some  under  arms 
in  distant  lands ;  some  mingling  in  the  busy  intrigues  of 


248  THE  SKETCHBOOK. 

courts  and  cabinets ;  all  seeking  to  deserve  one  more  dis- 
tinction in  this  mansion  of  shadowy  honors  :  the  melan- 
choly reward  of  a  monument. 

Two  small  aisles  on  each  side  of  this  chapel  present  a 
touching  instance  of  the  equality  of  the  grave ;  which 
brings  down  the  oppressor  to  a  level  with  the  oppressed, 
and  mingles  the  dust  of  the  bitterest  enemies  together. 
In  one  is  the  sepulchre  of  the  haughty  Elizabeth ;  in  the 
other  is  that  of  her  victim,  the  lovely  and  unfortunate 
Mary.  Not  an  hour  in  the  day  but  some  ejaculation  of 
pity  is  uttered  over  the  fate  of  the  latter,  mingled  with 
indignation  at  her  oppressor.  The  walls  of  Elizabeth's 
sepulchre  continually  echo  with  the  sighs  of  sympathy 
heaved  at  the  grave  of  her  rival. 

A  peculiar  melancholy  reigns  over  the  aisle  where 
Mary  lies  buried.  The  light  struggles  dimly  through 
windows  darkened  by  dust.  The  greater  part  of  the 
place  is  in  deep  shadow,  and  the  v/alls  are  stained  and 
tinted  by  time  and  weather.  A  marble  figure  of  Mary  is 
stretched  upon  the  tomb,  round  which  is  an  iron  railing, 
much  corroded,  bearing  her  national  emblem — the  this- 
tle. I  was  weary  with  wandering,  and  sat  down  to  rest 
myself  by  the  monument,  revolving  in  my  mind  the  cheq- 
uered and  disastrous  story  of  poor  Mary. 

The  sound  of  casual  footsteps  had  ceased  from  the 
abbey.  I  could  only  hear,  now  and  then,  the  distant 
voice  of  the  priest  repeating  the  evening,  service,  and  the 
faint  responses  of  the  choir ;  these  paused  for  a  time,  and 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  249 

all  was  hushed.  The  stillness,  the  desertion  and  obscu» 
rity  that  were  gradually  prevailing  around,  gave  a  deeper 
and  more  solemn  interest  to  the  place : 

For  in  the  silent  grave  no  conversation, 
No  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of  lovers, 
No  careful  father's  counsel— nothing's  heard, 
For  nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion, 
Dust,  and  an  endless  darkness. 

Suddenly  the  notes  of  the  deep-laboring  organ  burst 
upon  the  ear,  falling  with  doubled  and  redoubled  in- 
tensity, and  rolling,  as  it  were,  huge  billows  of  sound. 
How  well  do  their  volume  and  grandeur  accord  with 
this  mighty  building !  With  what  pomp  do  they  swell 
through  its  vast  vaults,  and  breathe  their  awful  harmony 
through  these  caves  of  death,  and  make  the  silent  sepul- 
chre vocal ! — And  now  they  rise  in  triumph  and  acclama- 
tion, heaving  higher  and  higher  their  accordant  notes, 
and  piling  sound  on  sound. — ^And  now  they  pause,  and 
the  soft  voices  of  the  choir  break  out  into  sweet  gushes 
of  melody;  they  soar  aloft,  and  warble  along  the  roof, 
and  seem  to  play  about  these  lofty  vaults  like  the  pure 
airs  of  heaven.  Again  the  pealing  organ  heaves  its  thrill- 
ing thunders,  compressing  air  into  music,  and  rolling  it 
forth  upon  the  soul.  What  long-drawn  cadences !  What 
solemn  sweeping  concords !  It  grows  more  and  more 
dense  and  powerful — it  fills  the  vast  pile,  and  seems  to 
jar  the  very  walls — the  ear  is  stunned — the  senses  are 


250  •  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

overwhelmed.  And  now  it  is  winding  up  in  full  jubilee — 
it  is  rising  from  the  earth  to  heaven — the  very  soul  seems 
rapt  away  and  floated  upwards  on  this  swelling  tide  of 
harmony ! 

I  sat  for  some  time  lost  in  that  kind  of  reverie  which  a 
strain  of  music  is  apt  sometimes  to  inspire  :  the  shadows 
of  evening  were  gradually  thickening  round  me ;  the 
monuments  began  to  cast  deeper  and  deeper  gloom ;  and 
the  distant  clock  again  gave  token  of  the  slowly  waning 
day. 

I  rose  and  prepared  to  leave  the  abbey.  As  I  de- 
scended the  flight  of  steps  which  lead  into  the  body  of 
the  building,  my  eye  was  caught  by  the  shrine  of  Edward 
the  Confessor,  and  I  ascended  the  small  staircase  that 
conducts  to  it,  to  take  from  thence  a  general  survey  of 
this  wilderness  of  tombs.  The  shrine  is  elevated  upon 
a  kind  of  platform,  and  close  around  it  are  the  sepulchres 
of  various  kings  and  queens.  From  this  eminence  the 
eye  looks  down  between  pillars  and  funeral  trophies  to 
the  chapels  and  chambers  below,  crowded  with  tombs ; 
where  warriors,  prelates,  courtiers  and  statesmen,  lie 
mouldering  in  their  "beds  of  darkness."  Close  by  me 
stood  the  great  chair  of  coronation,  rudely  carved  of  oak, 
in  the  barbarous  taste  of  a  remote  and  Gothic  age.  The 
scene  seemed  almost  as  if  contrived,  with  theatrical  arti- 
fice, to  produce  an  effect  upon  the  beholder.  Here  was 
a  type  of  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  human  pomp  and 
power ;  here  it  was  literally  but  a  step  from  the  throne 


WEBTMINSTEIt  ABBEY.  251 

to  tlie  sepulchre.  Would  not  one  think  that  these  incon- 
gruous mementos  had  been  gathered  together  as  a  lesson 
to  living  greatness  ? — to  show  it,  even  in  the  moment  of 
its  proudest  exaltation,  the  neglect  and  dishonor  to  which 
it  must  soon  arrive ;  how  soon  that  crown  which  encir- 
cles its  brow  must  pass  awaj,  and  it  must  lie  down  in  the 
dust  and  disgraces  of  the  tomb,  and  be  trampled  upon 
by  the  feet  of  the  meanest  of  the  multitude.  For,  strange 
to  tell,  even  the  grave  is  here  no  longer  a  sanctuary. 
There  is  a  shocking  levity  in  some  natures,  which  leads 
them  to  sport  with  awful  and  hallowed  things ;  and  there 
are  base  minds,  which  delight  to  revenge  on  the  illus- 
trious dead  the  abject  homage  and  grovelling  servility 
which  they  pay  to  the  living.  The  coffin  of  Edward  the 
Confessor  has  been  broken  open,  and  his  remains  de- 
spoiled of  their  funereal  ornaments ;  the  sceptre  has  been 
stolen  from  the  hand  of  the  imperious  Elizabeth,  and  the 
effigy  of  Henry  the  Fifth  lies  headless.  Not  a  royal 
monument  but  bears  some  proof  how  false  and  fugitive 
is  the  homage  of  mankind.  Some  are  plundered ;  some 
mutilated ;  some  covered  with  ribaldry  and  insult — all 
more  or  less  outraged  and  dishonored  ! 

The  last  beams  of  day  were  now  faintly  streaming 
through  the  painted  windows  in  the  high  vaults  above 
me ;  the  lower  parts  of  the  abbey  were  already  wrapped 
in  the  obscurity  of  twilight.  The  chapels  and  aisles 
grew  darker  and  darker.  The  effigies  of  the  kings  faded 
into  shadows ;  the  marble  figures  of  the  monuments  as- 


252  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

sumed  strange  shapes  in  tlie  uncertain  light ;  the  evening 
breeze  crept  tlirongh  the  aisles  like  the  cold  breath  of 
the  grave  ;  and  even  the  distant  footfall  of  a  verger,  trav- 
ersing the  Poet's  Corner,  had  something  strange  and 
dreary  in  its  sound.  I  slowly  retraced  my  morning's 
walk,  and  as  I  passed  out  at  the  portal  of  the  cloisters, 
the  door,  closing  with  a  jarring  noise  behind  me,  filled 
the  whole  building  with  echoes. 

I  endeavored  to  form  some  arrangement  in  my  mind  of 
the  objects  I  had  been  contemplating,  but  found  they 
were  already  fallen  into  indistinctness  and  confusion. 
Names,  inscriptions,  trophies,  had  all  become  confounded 
in  my  recollection,  though  I  had  scarcely  taken  my  foot 
from  off  the  threshold.  What,  thought  I,  is  this  vast 
assemblage  of  sepulchres  but  a  treasury  of  humiliation ; 
a  huge  pile  of  reiterated  homilies  on  the  emptiness  of 
renown,  and  the  certainty  of  oblivion !  It  is,  indeed,  the 
empire  of  death ;  his  great  shadowy  palace,  where  he  sits 
in  state,  mocking  at  the  relics  of  human  glory,  and 
spreading  dust  and  forgetfulness  on  the  monuments  of 
princes.  How  idle  a  boast,  after  all,  is  the  immortality 
of  a  name  !  Time  is  ever  silently  turning  over  his  pages ; 
we  are  too  much  engrossed  by  the  story  of  the  present,  to 
think  of  the  characters  and  anecdotes  that  gave  interest 
to  the  past ;  and  each  age  is  a  volume  thrown  aside  to  be 
speedily  forgotten.  The  idol  of  to-day  pushes  the  hero 
of  yesterday  out  of  our  recollection;  and  will,  in  turn, 
be   supplanted  by  his   successor  of  to-morrow.     "Oui 


WESTMINSTEB  A^BBET,  253 

fathers,"  says  Sir  Thomas  Brown,  "find  their  graves  in 
our  short  memories,  and  sadly  tell  lis  how  we  may  be  bur- 
ied in  our  survivors."  History  fades  into  fable;  fact  be- 
comes clouded  with  doubt  and  controversy ;  the  inscrip- 
tion moulders  from  the  tablet ;  the  statue  falls  from  the 
pedestal.  Columns,  arches,  pyramids,  what  are  they  but 
heaps  of  sand ;  and  their  epitaphs,  but  characters  written 
in  the  dust  ?  "What  is  the  security  of  a  tomb,  or  the  per- 
petuity of  an  embalmment?  The  remains  of  Alexander 
the  Great  have  been  scattered  to  the  wind,  and  his  empty 
sarcophagus  is  now  the  mere  curiosity  of  a  museum. 
"  The  Egyptian  mummies,  which  Cambyses  or  time  hath 
spared,  avarice  now  consumeth ;  Mizraim  cures  wounds, 
and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for  balsams."  * 

What  then  is  to  insure  this  pile  which  now  towers 
above  me  from  sharing  the  fate  of  mightier  mausoleums  ? 
The  time  must  come  when  its  gilded  vaults,  which  now 
spring  so  loftily,  shall  lie  in  rubbish  beneath  the  feet ; 
when,  instead  of  the  sound  of  melody  and  praise,  the 
wind  shall  whistle  through  the  broken  arches,  and  the 
owl  hoot  from  the  shattered  tower — when  the  gairish  sun- 
beam shall  break  into  these  gloomy  mansions  of  death, 
and  the  ivy  twine  round  the  fallen  column ;  and  the  fox- 
glove hang  its  blossoms  about  the  nameless  urn,  as  if  in 
mockery  of  the  dead.  Thus  man  passes  away ;  his  name 
perishes  from  record  and  recollection  ;  his  history  is  as  a 
tale  that  is  told,  and  his  very  monument  becomes  a  ruin.t 

*  Sir  T.  Brown.  f  For  notes  on  Westminster  Abbey,  see  Appendix. 


CHRISTMAS. 

But  is  old,  old,  good  old  Christmas  gone?  Nothing  but  the  hair  of  his 
good,  gray,  old  head  and  beard  left  ?  Well,  I  will  have  that,  seeing  I  cannot 
have  more  of  him.  Hub  and  Cry  apter  Christmas. 

A  man  might  then  behold 

At  Christmas,  in  each  hall 
Good  fires  to  curb  the  cold, 

And  meat  for  great  and  small. 
The  neighbors  were  friendly  bidden, 

And  all  had  welcome  true, 
The  poor  from  the  gates  were  not  chidden 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

Old  Song. 

OTHING  in  England  exercises  a  more  delight- 
ful spell  over  my  imagination,  than  the  linger- 
ings  of  the  holiday  customs  and  rural  games  of 
former  times.  They  recall  the  pictures  my  fancy  used  to 
draw  in  the  May  morning  of  life,  when  as  yet  I  only  knew 
the  world  through  books,  and  believed  it  to  be  all  that 
pcets  had  painted  it;  and  they  bring  with  them  the 
flavor  of  those  honest  days  of  yore,  in  which,  perhaps, 
with  equal  fallacy,  I  am  apt  to  think  the  world  was  more 
homebred,  social,  and  joyous  than  at  present.  I  regret 
to  say  that  they  are  daily  growing  more  and  more  faint, 

254 


CHRISTMAS.  255 

being  gradually  worn  away  by  time,  but  still  more  oblit- 
erated by  modern  fashion.  They  resemble  those  pic- 
turesque morsels  of  Gothic  architecture,  which  we  see 
crumbling  in  various  parts  of  the  country,  partly  dilap- 
idated by  the  waste  of  ages,  and  partly  lost  in  the  addi- 
tions and  alterations  of  later  days.  Poetry,  however, 
clings  with  cherishing  fondness  about  the  rural  game 
and  holiday  revel,  from  which  it  has  derived  so  many  of 
its  themes — as  the  ivy  winds  its  rich  foliage  about  the 
Gothic  arch  and  mouldering  tower,  gratefully  repaying 
their  support,  by  clasping  together  their  tottering  re- 
mains, and,  as  it  were,  embalming  them  in  verdure. 

Of  all  the  old  festivals,  however,  that  of  Christmas 
awakens  the  strongest  and  most  heartfelt  associations. 
There  is  a  tone  of  solemn  and  sacred  feeling  that  blends 
with  our  conviviality,  and  lifts  the  spirit  to  a  state  of 
hallowed  and  elevated  enjoyment.  The  services  of  the 
church  about  this  season  are  extremely  tender  and  in- 
spiring. They  dwell  on  the  beautiful  story  of  the  origin 
of  our  faith,  and  the  pastoral  scenes  that  accompanied  its 
announcement.  They  gradually  increase  in  fervor  and 
pathos  during  the  season  of  Advent,  until  they  break 
forth  in  full  jubilee  on  the  morning  that  brought  peace 
and  good- will  to  men.  I  do  not  know  a  grander  effect  of 
music  on  the  moral  feelings,  than  to  hear  the  full  choir 
and  the  pealing  organ  performing  a  Christmas  anthem 
in  a  cathedral,  and  filling  every  part  of  the  vast  pile 
with  triumphant  harmony. 


256  TBE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

It  is  a  beautiful  arrangement,  also,  derived  from  days 
of  yore,  that  this  festival,  which  commemorates  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  religion  of  peace  and  love,  has  been 
made  the  season  for  gathering  together  of  family  connec- 
tions, and  drawing  closer  again  those  bands  of  kindred 
hearts,  which  the  cares  and  pleasures  and  sorrows  of  the 
world  are  continually  operating  to  cast  loose ;  of  calling 
back  the  children  of  a  family,  who  have  launched  forth 
in  life,  and  wandered  widely  asunder,  once  more  to  as- 
semble about  the  paternal  hearth,  that  rallying  place  of 
the  affections,  there  to  grow  young  and  loving  again 
among  the  endearing  mementos  of  childhood. 

There  is  something  in  the  very  season  of  the  year  that 
gives  a  charm  to  the  festivity  of  Christmas.  At  other 
times  we  derive  a  great  portion  of  our  pleasures  from  the 
mere  beauties  of  nature.  Our  feelings  sally  forth  and 
dissipate  themselves  over  the  sunny  landscape,  and  we 
"live  abroad  and  everywhere."  The  song  of  the  bird,  the 
murmur  of  the  stream,  the  breathing  fragrance  of  spring, 
the  soft  voluptuousness  of  summer,  the  golden  pomp  of 
autumn;  earth  with  its  mantle  of  refreshing  green,  and 
heaven  with  its  deep  delicious  blue  and  its  cloudy  mag- 
nificence, all  fill  us  with  mute  but  exquisite  delight,  and 
we  revel  in  the  luxury  of  mere  sensation.  But  in  the 
depth  of  winter,  when  nature  lies  despoiled  of  every 
charm,  and  wrapped  in  her  shroud  of  sheeted  snow,  we 
turn  for  our  gratifications  to  moral  sources.  The  dreari- 
ness and  desolation  of  the  landscape,  the  short  gloomy 


CERI8TMA8,  257 

days  and  darksome  nights,  while  they  circumscribe  our 
wanderings,  shut  in  our  feelings  also  from  rambling 
abroad,  and  make  us  more  keenly  disposed  for  the  pleas- 
ure of  the  social  circle.  Our  thoughts  are  more  concen- 
trated ;  our  friendly  sympathies  more  aroused.  We  feel 
more  sensibly  the  charm  of  each  other's  society,  and  are 
brought  more  closely  together  by  dependence  on  each 
other  for  enjoyment.  Heart  calleth  unto  heart ;  and  we 
draw  our  pleasures  from  the  deep  wells  of  loving-kind- 
ness, which  lie  in  the  quiet  recesses  of  our  bosoms  ;  and 
which,  when  resorted  to,  furnish  forth  the  pure  element 
of  domestic  felicity. 

The  pitchy  gloom  without  makes  the  heart  dilate  on 
entering  the  room  filled  with  the  glow  and  warmth  of  the 
evening  fire.  The  ruddy  blaze  diffuses  an  artificial  sum- 
mer and  sunshine  through  the  room^  and  lights  up  each 
countenance  in  a  kindlier  welcome.  Where  does  the  hon- 
est face  of  hospitality  expand  into  a  broader  and  more 
cordial  smile — where  is  the  shy  glance  of  love  more 
sweetly  eloquent — than  by  the  winter  fireside?  and  as 
the  hollow  blast  of  wintry  wind  rushes  through  the 
hall,  claps  the  distant  door,  whistles  about  the  case- 
ment, and  rumbles  down  the  chimney,  what  can  be 
more  grateful  than  that  feeling  of  sober  and  sheltered 
security,  with  which  we  look  round  upon  the  comforta- 
ble chamber  and  the  scene  of  domestic  hilarity  ? 

The  English,  from  the  great  prevalence  of  rural  habit 
throughout  every  class  of  society,  have  always  been  fond 
17 


258  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

of  those  festivals  and  holidays  which  agreeably  interrupt 
the  stillness  of  country  life;  and  they  were,  in  former 
days,  particularly  observant  of  the  religious  and  social 
rites  of  Christmas.  It  is  inspiring  to  read  even  the  dry 
details  which  some  antiquaries  have  given  of  the  quaint 
humors,  the  burlesque  pageants,  the  complete  aban- 
donment to  mirth  and  good-fellowship,  with  which  this 
festival  was  celebrated.  It  seemed  to  throw  open  every 
door,  and  unlock  every  heart.  It  brought  the  peasant 
and  the  peer  together,  and  blended  all  ranks  in  one 
warm  generous  flow  of  joy  and  kindness.  The  old  halls 
of  castles  ^nd  manor-houses  resounded  with  the  harp 
and  the  Christmas  carol,  and  their  ample  boards  groaned 
under  the  weight  of  hospitality.  Even  the  poorest  cot- 
tage welcomed  the  festive  season  with  green  decorations 
of  bay  and  holly — the  cheerful  fire  glanced  its  rays 
through  the  lattice,  inviting  the  passengers  to  raise  the 
latch,  and  join  the  gossip  knot  huddled  round  the  hearth, 
beguiling  the  long  evening  with  legendary  jokes  and  oft- 
told  Christmas  tales. 

One  of  the  least  pleasing  effects  of  modern  refinement 
is  the  havoc  it  has  made  among  the  hearty  old  holiday 
customs.  It  has  completely  taken  off  the  sharp  touch- 
ings  and  spirited  reliefs  of  these  embellishments  of  life, 
and  has  worn  down  society  into  a  more  smooth  and  pol- 
ished, but  certainly  a  less  characteristic  surface.  Many 
of  the  games  and  ceremonials  of  Christmas  have  entirely 
disappeared,  and,  like  the  sherris  sack  of  old  Falstaff, 


CHBI8TMAS.  269 

are  become  matters  of  speculation  and  dispute  among 
commentators.  They  flourished  in  times  full  of  spirit 
and  lustihood,  when  men  enjoyed  life  roughly,  but  heart- 
ily and  vigorously;  times  wild  and  picturesque,  which ^ 
have  furnished  poetry  with  its  richest  materials,  and 
the  drama  with  its  most  attractive  variety  of  characters 
and  manners.  The  world  has  become  more  worldly. 
There  is  more  of  dissipation,  and  less  of  enjoyment. 
Pleasure  has  expanded  into  a  broader,  but  a  shallower 
stream ;  and  has  forsaken  many  of  those  deep  and  quiet 
channels  where  it  flowed  sweetly  through  the  calm  bosom 
of  domestic  life.  Society  has  acquired  a  more  enlight- 
ened and  elegant  tone  ;  but  it  has  lost  many  of  its  strong 
local  peculiarities,  its  homebred  feelings,  its  honest  fire- 
side delights.  The  traditionary  customs  of  golden- 
hearted  antiquity,  its  feudal  hospitalities,  and  lordly 
wassailings,  have  passed  away  with  the  baronial  cas- 
tles and  stately  manor-houses  in  which  they  were  cele- 
brated. They  comported  with  the  shadowy  hall,  the 
great  oaken  gallery,  and  the  tapestried  parlor,  but  are 
unfitted  to  the  light  showy  saloons  and  gay  drawing- 
rooms  of  the  modern  villa. 

.  Shorn,  however,  as  it  is,  of  its  ancient  and  festive  hon- 
ors, Christmas  is  still  a  period  of  delightful  excitement  in 
England.  It  is  gratifying  to  see  that  home  feeling  com- 
pletely aroused  which  holds  so  powerful  a  place  in  every 
English  bosom.  The  preparations  making  on  every  side 
for  the  social  board  that  is  again  to  unite  friends  and 


260  TEE  BKETGHBOOE. 

kindred ;  the  presents  of  good  cheer  passing  and  repass- 
ing, those  tokens  of  regard,  and  quickeners  of  kind  feel- 
ings ;  the  evergreens  distributed  about  houses  and 
churches,  emblems  of  peace  and  gladness ;  all  these  have 
the  most  pleasing  effect  in  producing  fond  associations, 
and  kindling  benevolent  sympathies.  Even  the  sound  of 
the  Waits,  rude  as  may  be  their  minstrelsy,  breaks  upon 
the  mid-watches  of  a  winter  night  with  the  effect  of  per- 
fect harmony.  As  I  have  been  awakened  by  them  in  that 
still  and  solemn  hour,  "when  deep  sleep  falleth  upon 
man,"  I  have  listened  with  a  hushed  delight,  and,  con- 
necting them  with  the  sacred  and  joyous  occasion,  have 
almost  fancied  them  into  another  celestial  choir,  an- 
nouncing peace  and  good- will  to  mankind. 

How  delightfully  the  imagination,  when  wrought  upon 
by  these  moral  influences,  turns  every  thing  to  melody 
and  beauty !  The  very  crowing  of  the  cock,  heard  some- 
times in  the  profound  repose  of  the  country,  "  telling  the 
night  watches  to  his  feathery  dames,"  was  thought  by  the 
common  people  to  announce  the  approach  of  this  sacred 

festival. 

"  Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated, 
This  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long  ; 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad  ; 
The  nights  are  wholesome — then  no  planets  strike. 
No  fairy  takes,  no  witch  hath  power  to  charm, 
So  hallow'd  and  so  gracious  is  the  time. " 

Amidst  the  general  call  to  happiness,  the  bustle  of  the 


cmtrnTMAs.  261 

spirits,  and  stir  of  the  affections,  which  prevail  at  this 
period,  what  bosom  can  remain  insensible  ?  It  is,  indeed, 
the  season  of  regenerated  feeling — the  season  for  kind- 
ling, not  merely  the  fire  of  hospitality  in  the  hall,  but  the 
genial  flame  of  charity  in  the  heart. 

The  scene  of  early  love  again  rises  green  to  memory 
beyond  the  sterile  waste  of  years ;  and  the  idea  of  home, 
fraught  with  the  fragrance  of  home-dwelling  joys,  reani- 
mates the  drooping  spirit;  as  the  Arabian  breeze  will 
sometimes  waft  the  freshness  of  the  distant  fields  to  the 
weary  pilgrim  of  the  desert. 

Stranger  and  sojourner  as  I  am  in  the  land — though 
for  me  no  social  hearth  may  blaze,  no  hospitable  roof 
throw  open  its  doors,  nor  the  warm  grasp  of  friendship 
welcome  me  at  the  threshold — yet  I  feel  the  influence  of 
the  season  beaming  into  my  soul  from  the  happy  looks  of 
those  around  me.  Surely  happiness  is  reflective,  like 
the  light  of  heaven;  and  every  countenance,  bright  with 
smiles,  and  glowing  with  innocent  enjoyment,  is  a  mirror 
transmitting  to  others  the  rays  of  a  supreme  and  ever- 
shining  benevolence.  He  who  can  turn  churlishly  away 
from  contemplating  the  felicity  of  his  fellow-beings,  and 
can  sit  down  darkling  and  repining  in  his  loneliness 
when  all  around  is  joyful,  may  have  his  moments  of 
strong  excitement  and  selfish  gratification,  but  he  wants 
the  genial  and  social  sympathies  which  constitute  the 
charm  of  a  merry  Christmas. 


THE     STAGE     COACH. 

Omne  ben6 

Sine  poena 
Tempus  est  ludendl. 

Venit  hora 

Absque  mor^ 
Libros  deponendl. 

Old  Holiday  School  Song. 

N  the  preceding  paper  I  have  made  some  gen- 
eral observations  on  the  Christmas  festivities 
of  England,  and  am  tempted  to  illustrate  them 
by  some  anecdotes  of  a  Christmas  passed  in  the  country ; 
in  perusing  which  I  would  most  courteously  invite  my 
reader  to  lay  aside  the  austerity  of  wisdom,  and  to  put 
on  that  genuine  holiday  spirit  which  is  tolerant  of  folly, 
and  anxious  only  for  amusement. 

In  the  course  of  a  December  tour  in  Yorkshire,  I  rode 
for  a  long  distance  in  one  of  the  public  coaches,  on  the 
day  preceding  Christmas.  The  coach  was  crowded,  both 
inside  and  out,  with  passengers,  who,  by  their  talk, 
seemed  principally  bound  to  the  mansions  of  relations 
or  friends,  to  eat  the  Christmas  dinner.  It  was  loaded 
also  with  hampers  of  game,  and  baskets  and  boxes  of  de- 
licacies ;  and  hares  hung  dangling  their  long  ears  about 


TEE  STAGE  COACH,  263 

the  coachman's  box,  presents  from  distant  friends  for  the 
impending  feast.  I  had  three  fine  rosy-cheeked  boys  for 
my  fellow-passengers  inside,  full  of  the  buxom  health 
and  manly  spirit  which  I  have  observed  in  the  children 
of  this  country.  They  were  returning  home  for  the  holi- 
days in  high  glee,  and  promising  themselves  a  world  of 
enjoyment.  It  was  delightful  to  hear  the  gigantic  plans 
of  the  little  rogues,  and  the  impracticable  feats  they  were 
to  perform  during  their  six  weeks'  emancipation  from  the 
abhorred  thraldom  of  book,  birch,  and  pedagogue.  They 
were  full  of  anticipations  of  the  meeting  with  the  family 
and  household,  down  to  the  very  cat  and  dog ;  and  of  the 
joy  they  were  to  give  their  little  sisters  by  the  presents 
with  which  their  pockets  were  crammed  ;  but  the  meet- 
ing to  which  they  seemed  to  look  forward  with  the  great- 
est impatience  was  with  Bantam,  which  I  found  to  be  a 
pony,  and,  according  to  their  talk,  possessed  of  more  vir- 
tues than  any  steed  since  the  days  of  Bucephalus.  How 
he  could  trot !  how  he  could  run !  and  then  such  leaps  as 
he  would  take — there  was  not  a  hedge  in  the  whole  coun- 
try that  he  could  not  clear. 

They  were  under  the  particular  guardianship  of  the 
coachman,  to  whom,  whenever  an  opportunity  presented, 
they  addressed  a  host  of  questions,  and  pronounced  him 
one  of  the  best  fellows  in  the  world.  Indeed,  I  could  not 
but  notice  the  more  than  ordinary  air  of  bustle  and  im- 
portance of  the  coachman,  who  wore  his  hat  a  little  on 
one  side,  and  had  a  large  bunch  of  Christmas   greens 


264  THE  SKETGH-BOOK. 

stuck  in  the  button-hole  of  his  coat.  He  is  always  a 
personage  full  of  mighty  care  and  business,  but  he  is 
particularly  so  during  this  season,  having  so  many  com- 
missions to  execute  in  consequence  of  the  great  inter- 
change of  presents.  And  here,  perhaps,  it  may  not  be 
unacceptable  to  my  untravelled  readers,  to  have  a  sketch 
that  may  serve  as  a  general  representation  of  this  very 
numerous  and  important  class  of  functionaries,  who  have 
a  dress,  a  manner,  a  language,  an  air,  peculiar  to  them- 
selves, and  prevalent  throughout  the  fraternity ;  so  that, 
wherever  an  English  stage  coachman  may  be  seen,  he 
cannot  be  mistaken  for  one  of  any  other  craft  or  mystery. 

He  has  commonly  a  broad,  full  face,  curiously  mottled 
with  red,  as  if  the  blood  had  been  forced  by  hard  feeding 
into  every  vessel  of  the  skin  ;  he  is  swelled  into  jolly  di- 
mensions by  frequent  potations  of  malt  liquors,  and  his 
bulk  is  still  further  increased  by  a  multiplicity  of  coats, 
in  which  he  is  buried  like  a  cauliflower,  the  upper  one 
reaching  to  his  heels.  He  wears  a  broad  -  brimmed, 
low-crowned  hat;  a  huge  roll  of  colored  handkerchief 
about  his  neck,  knowingly  knotted  and  tucked  in  at 
the  bosom;  and  has  in  summer  time  a  large  bouquet 
of  flowers  in  his  button-hole ;  the  present,  most  prob- 
ably, of  some  enamored  country  lass.  His  waistcoat  is 
commonly  of  some  bright  color,  striped,  and  his  small 
clothes  extend  far  below  the  knees,  to  meet  a  pair  of 
jockey  boots  which  reach  about  half  way  up  his  legs. 

All  this  costume  is  maintained  with  much  precision; 


THE  STAGE  COACH,  265 

he  has  a  pride  in  having  his  clothes  of  excellent  ma- 
terials ;  and,  notwithstanding  the  seeming  grossness  of 
his  appearance,  there  is  still  discernible  that  neatness 
and  propriety  of  person,  which  is  almost  inherent  in  an 
Englishman.  He  enjoys  great  consequence  and  consid- 
eration along  the  road;  has  frequent  conferences  with 
the  village  housewives,  who  look  upon  him  as  a  man 
of  great  trust  and  dependence ;  and  he  seems  to  have 
a  good  understanding  with  every  bright-eyed  country 
lass.  The  moment  he  arrives  where  the  horses  are 
to  be  changed  he  throws  down  the  reins  with  some- 
thing of  an  air,  and  abandons  the  cattle  to  the  care  of 
the  hostler;  his  duty  being  merely  to  drive  from  one 
stage  to  another.  When  off  the  box,  his  hands  are 
thrust  into  the  pockets  of  his  great  coat,  and  he  rolls 
about  the  inn  yard  with  an  air  of  the  most  absolute 
lordliness.  Here  he  is  generally  surrounded  by  an  ad- 
miring throng  of  hostlers,  stable-boys,  shoeblacks,  and 
those  nameless  hangers-on,  that  infest  inns  and  taverns, 
and  run  errands,  and  do  all  kind  of  odd  jobs,  for  the 
privilege  of  battening  on  the  drippings  of  the  kitchen 
and  the  leakage  of  the  tap-room.  These  all  look  up 
to  him>  as  to  an  oracle  ;  treasure  up  his  cant  phrases ; 
echo  his  opinions  about  horses  and  other  topics  of 
jockey  lore ;  and,  above  all,  endeavor  to  imitate  his 
air  and  carriage.  Every  ragamuffin  that  has  a  coat  to 
his  back,  thrusts  his  hands  in  the  pockets,  rolls  in  his 
gait,  talks  slang,  and  is  an  embryo  Coachey. 


266  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Perhaps  it  might  be  owing  to  the  pleasing  serenity 
that  reigned  in  my  own  mind,  that  I  fancied  I  saw 
cheerfulness  in  every  countenance  throughout  the  jour- 
ney. A  stage  coach,  however,  carries  animation  always 
with  it,  and  puts  the  world  in  motion  as  it  whirls  along. 
The  horn,  sounded  at  the  entrance  of  a  village,  produces 
a  general  bustle.  Some  hasten  forth  to  meet  friends ; 
some  with  bundles  and  bandboxes  to  secure  places, 
and  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment  can  hardly  take  leave 
of  the  group  that  accompanies  them.  In  the  mean 
time,  the  coachman  has  a  world  of  small  commissions 
to  execute.  Sometimes  he  delivers  a  hare  or  pheasant ; 
sometimes  jerks  a  small  parcel  or  newspaper  to  the 
door  of  a  public  house ;  and  sometimes,  with  knowing 
leer  and  words  of  sly  import,  hands  to  some  half -blush- 
ing, half-laughing  housemaid  an  odd-shaped  billet-doux 
from  some  rustic  admirer.  As  the  coach  rattles  through 
the  village,  every  one  runs  to  the  window,  and  you  have 
glances  on  every  side  of  fresh  country  faces  and  bloom- 
ing giggling  girls.  At  the  corners  are  assembled  juntos 
of  village  idlers  and  wise  men,  who  take  their  stations 
there  for  the  important  purpose  of  seeing  company  pass ; 
but  the  sagest  knot  is  generally  at  the  blacksmith's,  to 
whom  the  passing  of  the  coach  is  an  event  fruitful  of 
much  speculation.  The  smith,  with  the  horse's  heel 
in  his  lap,  pauses  as  the  vehicle  whirls  by ;  the  cyclops 
round  the  anvil  suspend  their  ringing  hammers,  and 
suffer  the  iron  to  grow  cool ;  and  the  sooty  spectre,  in 


THE  STAGE  COACH.  267 

brown  paper  cap,  laboring  at  the  bellows,  leans  on  the 
handle  for  a  moment,  and  permits  the  asthmatic  engine 
to  heave  a  long-drawn  sigh,  while  he  glares  through  the 
murky  smoke  and  sulphureous  gleams  of  the  smithy. 

Perhaps  the  impending  holiday  might  have  given  a 
more  than  usual  animation  to  the  country,  for  it  seemed 
to  me  as  if  everybody  was  in  good  looks  and  good  spirits. 
Game,  poultry,  and  other  luxuries  of  the  table,  were  in 
brisk  circulation  in  the  villages ;  the  grocers',  butchers', 
and  fruiterers'  shops  were  thronged  with  customers.  The 
housewives  were  stirring  briskly  about,  putting  their 
dwellings  in  order ;  and  the  glossy  branches  of  holly, 
with  their  bright-red  berries,  began  to  appear  at  the 
windows.  The  scene  brought  to  mind  an  old  writer's 
account  of  Christmas  preparations  : — "  Now  capons  and 
hens,  beside  turkeys,  geese,  and  ducks,  with  beef  and 
mutton — must  all  die — for  in  twelve  days  a  multitude  of 
people  will  not  be  fed  with  a  little.  Now  plums  and 
spice,  sugar  and  honey,  square  it  among  pies  and  broth. 
Now  or  never  must  music  be  in  tune,  for  the  youth  must 
dance  and  sing  to  get  them  a  heat,  while  the  aged  sit  by 
the  fire.  The  country  maid  leaves  half  her  market,  and 
must  be  sent  again,  if  she  forgets  a  pack  of  cards  on 
Christmas  eve.  Great  is  the  contention  of  holly  and  ivy, 
whether  master  or  dame  wears  the  breeches.  Dice  and 
cards  benefit  the  butler ;  and  if  the  cook  do  not  lack  wit; 
he  will  sweetly  lick  his  fingers." 

I  was  roused  from  this  fit  of  luxurious  meditation,  by 


268  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

a  shout  from  my  little  travelling  companions.  They  had 
been  looking  out  of  the  coach  windows  for  the  last  few 
miles,  recognizing  every  tree  and  cottage  as  they  ap- 
proached home,  and  now  there  was  a  general  burst  of 
joy — "  There's  John !  and  there's  old  Carlo !  and  there's 
Bantam ! "  cried  the  happy  little  rogues,  clapping  their 
hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  lane  there  was  an  old  sober-looking 
servant  in  livery,  waiting  for  them ;  he  was  accompanied 
by  a  superannuated  pointer,  and  by  the  redoubtable  Ban- 
tam, a  little  old  rat  of  a  pony,  with  a  shaggy  mane  and 
long  rusty  tail,  who  stood  dozing  quietly  by  the  road- 
side, little  dreaming  of  the  bustling  times  that  awaited 
him. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  fondness  with  which  the  little 
fellows  leaped  about  the  steady  old  footman,  and  hugged 
the  pointer ;  who  wriggled  his  whole  body  for  joy.  But 
Bantam  was  the  great  object  of  interest ;  all  wanted  to 
mount  at  once,  and  it  was  with  some  difficulty  that  John 
arranged  that  they  should  ride  by  turns,  and  the  eldest 
should  ride  first. 

Off  they  set  at  last ;  one  on  the  pony,  with  the  dog 
bounding  and  barking  before  him,  and  the  others  holding 
John's  hands;  both  talking  at  once,  and  overpowering 
him  with  questions  about  home,  and  with  school  anec- 
dotes. I  looked  after  them  with  a  feeling  in  which  I  do 
not  know  whether  pleasure  or  melancholy  predominated; 
for  I  was  reminded  of  those  days  when,  like  them,  I  had 


TEE  STAGE  COACH.  269 

neither  known  care  nor  sorrow,  and  a  holiday  was  the 
summit  of  earthly  felicity.  We  stopped  a  few  moments 
afterwards  to  water  the  horses,  and  on  resuming  our 
route,  a  turn  of  the  road  brought  us  in  sight  of  a  neat 
country  seat.  I  could  just  distinguish  the  forms  of  a 
lady  and  two  young  girls  in  the  portico,  and  I  saw  my 
little  comrades,  with  Bantam,  Carlo,  and  old  John,  troop- 
ing along  the  carriage  road.  I  leaned  out  of  the  coach 
window,  in  hopes  of  witnessing  the  happy  meeting,  but  a 
grove  of  trees  shut  it  from  my  sight. 

In  the  evening  we  reached  a  village  where  I  had  deter- 
mined to  pass  the  night.  As  we  drove  into  the  great 
gateway  of  the  inn,  I  saw  on  one  side  the  light  of  a  rous- 
ing kitchen  fire  beaming  through  a  window.  I  entered, 
and  admired,  for  the  hundredth  time,  that  picture  of  con- 
venience, neatness,  and  broad  honest  enjoyment,  the 
kitchen  of  an  English  inn.  It  was  of  spacious  dimen- 
sions, hung  round  with  copper  and  tin  vessels  highly  pol- 
ished, and  decorated  here  and  there  with  a  Christmas 
green.  Hams,  tongues,  and  flitches  of  bacon,  were  sus- 
pended from  the  ceiling ;  a  smoke-jack  made  its  ceaseless 
clanking  beside  the  fireplace,  and  a  clock  ticked  in  one 
corner.  A  well-scoured  deal  table  extended  along  one 
side  of  the  kitchen,  with  a  cold  round  of  beef,  and  other 
hearty  viands  upon  it,  over  which  two  foaming  tankards 
of  ale  seemed  mounting  guard.  Travellers  of  inferior 
order  were  preparing  to  attack  this  stout  repast,  while 
others  sat  smoking  and  gossiping  over  their  ale  on  two 


270  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

higli-backed  oaken  settles  beside  tlie  fire.  Trim  house- 
maids v/ere  hurrying  backv/ards  and  forwards  under  the 
directions  of  a  fresh,  bustling  landlady ;  but  still  seizing 
an  occasional  moment  to  exchange  a  flippant  word,  and 
have  a  rallying  laugh,  with  the  group  round  the  fire. 
The  scene  completely  realized  Poor  Kobin's  humble  idea 
of  the  comforts  of  mid- winter  : 

Now  trees  their  leafy  hats  do  bare 
To  reverence  Winter's  silver  hair  ; 
A  handsome  hostess,  merry  host, 
'  A  pot  of  ale  now  and  a  toast, 

Tobacco  and  a  good  coal  fire, 
Are  things  this  season  doth  require.* 

I  had  not  been  long  at  the  inn  when  a  post-chaise 
drove  up  to  the  door.  A  young  gentleman  stept  out, 
and  by  the  light  of  the  lamps  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
countenance  which  I  thought  I  knew.  I  moved  forward 
to  get  a  nearer  view,  when  his  eye  caught  mine.  I  was 
not  mistaken;  it  was  Frank  Bracebridge,  a  sprightly 
good-humored  young  fellow,  with  whom  I  had  once  tra- 
velled on  the  continent.  Our  meeting  was  extremely  cor- 
dial, for  the  countenance  of  an  old  fellow-traveller  always 
brings  up  the  recollection  of  a  thousand  pleasant  scenes, 
odd  adventures,  and  excellent  jokes.  To  discuss  all  these 
in  a  transient  interview  at  an  inn  was  impossible ;  and 
finding  that  I  was  not  pressed  for  time,  and  was  merely 

♦  Poor  Robin's  Almanac,  1684. 


THE  STAGE  COACH.  271 

making  a  tour  of  observation,  he  insisted  tliat  I  should 
give  him  a  day  or  two  at  his  father's  country  seat,  to 
which  he  was  going  to  pass  the  holidays,  and  which  lay 
at  a  few  miles  distance.  "It  is  better  than  eating  a  soli- 
tary Christmas  dinner  at  an  inn,"  said  he,  "and  I  can 
assure  you  of  a  hearty  welcome  in  something  of  the  old- 
fashioned  style."  His  reasoning  was  cogent,  and  I  must 
confess  the  preparation  I  had  seen  for  universal  festivity 
and  social  enjoyment  had  made  me  feel  a  little  impatient 
of  my  loneliness.  I  closed,  therefore,  at  once,  with  his 
invitation :  the  chaise  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  in  a  few 
moments  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  family  mansion  of  the 
Bracebridges, 


CHKISTMAS    EVE 

Saint  Francis  and  Saint  Benedight 
Blesse  this  house  from  wicked  wight ; 
From  the  night-mare  and  the  goblin, 
That  is  hight  good  fellow  Robin  ; 
Keep  it  from  all  evil  spirits, 
Fairies,  weezels,  rats,  and  ferrets : 

From  curfew  time 

To  the  next  prime. 

Cartweight. 


T  was  a  brilliant  moonlight  night,  but  extremely 
cold ;  our  chaise  whirled  rapidly  over  the  fro- 
zen ground;  the  postboy  smacked  his  whip 
incessantly,  and  a  part  of  the  time  his  horses  were  on  a 
gallop.  "He  knows  where  he  is  going,"  said  my  com- 
panion, laughing,  "and  is  eager  to  arrive  in  time  for 
some  of  the  merriment  and  good  cheer  of  the  servants' 
hall.  My  father,  you  must  know,  is  a  bigoted  devotee  of 
the  old  school,  and  prides  himself  upon  keeping  up 
something  of  old  English  hospitality.  He  is  a  tolerable 
specimen  of  what  you  v\^ill  rarely  meet  with  nowadays  in 
its  purity,  the  old  English  country  gentleman;  for  our 
men  of  fortune  spend  so  much  of  their  time  in  town,  and 
fashion  is  carried  so  much   into  the  country,  that  the 

272 


CHBISTMAS  EVE.  273 

strong  ricli  peculiarities  of  ancient  rural  life  are  almost 
polished  away.  My  father,  however,  from  early  years, 
took  honest  Peacham^  for  his  text-book,  instead  of 
Chesterfield ;  he  determined  in  his  own  mind,  that  there 
was  no  condition  more  truly  honorable  and  enviable 
than  that  of  a  country  gentleman  on  his  paternal  lands, 
and  therefore  passes  the  whole  of  his  time  on  his  estate. 
He  is  a  strenuous  advocate  for  the  revival  of  the  old 
rural  games  and  holiday  observances,  and  is  deeply  read 
in  the  writers,  ancient  and  modern,  who  have  treated  on 
the  subject.  Indeed  his  favorite  range  of  reading  is 
among  the  authors  who  flourished  at  least  two  centuries 
since ;  who,  he  insists,  wrote  and  thought  more  like  true 
Englishmen  than  any  of  their  successors.  He  even  re- 
grets sometimes  that  he  had  not  been  born  a  few  centu- 
ries earlier,  when  England  was  itself,  and  had  its  peculiar 
manners  and  customs.  As  he  lives  at  some  distance  from 
the  main  road,  in  rather  a  lonely  part  of  the  country, 
without  any  rival  gentry  near  him,  he  has  that  most  en- 
viable of  all  blessings  to  an  Englishman,  an  opportunity 
of  indulging  the  bent  of  his  own  humor  without  molesta- 
tion. Being  representative  of  the  oldest  family  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  a  great  part  of  the  peasantry  being  his 
tenants,  he  is  much  looked  up  to,  and,  in  general,  is 
known  simply  by  the  appellation  of  'The  Squire  ;'  a  title 
which  has  been  accorded  to  the  head  of  the  family  since 

*  Peacham's  Complete  Gentleman,  1623. 
18 


274  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

time  immemorial.  I  think  it  best  to  give  you  these  hints 
about  my  worthy  old  father,  to  prepare  you  for  any  ec- 
centricities that  might  otherwise  appear  absurd." 

We  had  passed  for  some  time  along  the  wall  of  a  park, 
and  at  length  the  chaise  stopped  at  the  gate.  It  was  in 
a  heavy  magnificent  old  style,  of  iron  bars,  fancifully 
wrought  at  top  into  flourishes  and  flowers.  The  huge 
square  columns  that  supported  the  gate  were  surmounted 
by  the  family  crest.  Close  adjoining  was  the  porter's 
lodge,  sheltered  under  dark  fir-trees,  and  almost  buried 
in  shrubbery. 

The  postboy  rang  a  large  porter's  bell,  which  re- 
sounded through  the  still  frosty  air,  and  was  answered 
by  the  distant  barking  of  dogs,  with  which  the  mansion- 
house  seemed  garrisoned.  An  old  woman  immediately 
appeared  at  the  gate.  As  the  moonlight  fell  strongly 
upon  her,  I  had  a  full  view  of  a  little  primitive  dame, 
dressed  very  much  in  the  antique  taste,  with  a  neat  ker- 
chief and  stomacher,  and  her  silver  hair  peeping  from 
under  a  cap  of  snowy  whiteness.  She  came  courtesying 
forth,  with  many  expressions  of  simple  joy  at  seeing  her 
young  master.  Her  husband,  it  seemed,  was  up  at  the 
house  keeping  Christmas  eve  in  the  servants'  hall ;  they 
could  not  do  without  him,  as  he  was  the  best  hand  at  a 
song  and  story  in  the  household. 

My  friend  proposed  that  we  should  alight  and  walk 
through  the  park  to  the  hall,  which  was  at  no  great  dis- 
tance,  while  the   chaise   should  follow  on.     Our  road 


CHRISTMAS  EYE.  276 

wound  through  a  noble  avenue  of  trees,  among  the  naked 
branches  of  which  the  moon  glittered,  as  she  rolled 
through  the  deep  vault  of  a  cloudless  sky.  The  lawn  be- 
yond was  sheeted  with  a  slight  covering  of  snow,  which 
here  and  there  sparkled  as  the  moonbeams  caught  a 
frosty  crystal ;  and  at  a  distance  might  be  seen  a  thin 
transparent  vapor,  stealing  up  from  the  low  grounds  and 
threatening  gradually  to  shroud  the  landscape. 

My  companion  looked  around  him  with  transport : — 
"How  often,"  said  he,  ''have  I  scampered  up  this  avenue, 
on  returning  home  on  school  vacations  !  How  often  have 
I  played  under  these  trees  when  a  boy !  I  feel  a  degree 
of  filial  reverence  for  them,  as  we  look  up  to  those  who 
have  cherished  us  in  childhood.  My  father  was  always 
scrupulous  in  exacting  our  holidays,  and  having  us 
around  him  on  family  festivals.  He  used  to  direct  and 
superintend  our  games  with  the  strictness  that  some  par- 
ents do  the  studies  of  their  children.  He  was  very  par- 
ticular that  we  should  play  the  old  English  games  ac- 
cording to  their  original  form ;  and  consulted  old  books 
for  precedent  and  authority  for  every  'merrie  disport;' 
yet  I  assure  you  there  never  was  pedantry  so  delightful. 
It  was  the  policy  of  the  good  old  gentleman  to  make  his 
children  feel  that  home  was  the  happiest  place  in  the 
world ;  and  I  value  this  delicious  home-feeling  as  one  of 
the  choicest  gifts  a  parent  could  bestow." 

"We  were  interrupted  by  the  clamor  of  a  troop  of  dogs 
of    all    sorts   and   sizes,    "mongrel,   puppy,   whelp   and 


276  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

hound,  and  curs  of  low  degree,"  that,  disturbed  by  the 
ring  of  the  porter's  bell  and  the  rattling  of  the  chaise, 
came  bounding,  open-mouthed,  across  the  lawn. 

" The  little  dogs  and  all, 

Tray,  Blanch,  and  Sweetheart,  see,  they  bark  at  me  I " 

eried  Bracebridge,  laughing.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice, 
the  bark  was  changed  into  a  yelp  of  delight,  and  in  a 
moment  he  was  surrounded  and  almost  overpowered  by 
the  caresses  of  the  faithful  animals. 

We  had  now  come  in  full  view  of  the  old  family  man- 
sion, partly  thrown  in  deep  shadow,  and  partly  lit  up  by 
the  cold  moonshine.  It  was  an  irregular  building,  of 
some  magnitude,  and  seemed  to  be  of  the  architecture  of 
different  periods.  One  wing  was  evidently  very  ancient, 
with  heavy  stone-shafted  bow  windows  jutting  out  and 
overrun  with  ivy,  from  among  the  foliage  of  which  the 
small  diamond-shaped  panes  of  glass  glittered  with  the 
moonbeams.  The  rest  of  the  house  was  in  the  French 
taste  of  Charles  the  Second's  time,  having  been  repaired 
and  altered,  as  my  friend  told  me,  by  one  of  his  ances- 
tors, who  returned  with  that  monarch  at  the  Restoration. 
The  grounds  about  the  house  were  laid  out  in  the  old 
formal  manner  of  artificial  flov/er-beds,  clipped  shrubber- 
ies, raised  terraces,  and  heavy  stone  balustrades,  orna- 
mented with  urns,  a  leaden  statue  or  two,  and  a  jet  of 
water.  The  old  gentleman,  I  was  told,  was  extremely 
careful  to  preserve  this  obsolete  finery  in  all  its  original 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  277 

state.  He  admired  this  fashion  in  gardening ;  it  had  an 
air  of  magnificence,  was  courtly  and  noble,  and  befitting 
good  old  family  style.  The  boasted  imitation  of  nature 
in  modern  gardening  had  sprung  up  with  modern  repub- 
lican notions,  but  did  not  suit  a  monarchical  govern- 
ment; it  smacked  of  the  levelling  system — I  could  not 
help  smiling  at  this  introduction  of  politics  into  garden- 
ing, though  I  expressed  some  apprehension  that  I  should 
find  the  old  gentleman  rather  intolerant  in  his  creed. — 
Frank  assured  me,  however,  that  it  was  almost  the  only 
instance  in  which  he  had  ever  heard  his  father  meddle 
with  politics ;  and  he  believed  that  he  had  got  this  no- 
tion from  a  member  of  parliament  who  once  passed  a  few 
weeks  with  him.  The  squire  was  glad  of  any  argument 
to  defend  his  clipped  yew-trees  and  formal  terraces, 
which  had  been  occasionally  attacked  by  modern  land- 
scape gardeners. 

As  we  approached  the  house,  we  heard  the  sound  of 
music,  and  now  and  then  a  burst  of  laughter,  from  one 
end  of  the  building.  This,  Bracebridge  said,  must  pro- 
ceed from  the  servants'  hall,  where  a  great  deal  of  rev- 
elry was  permitted,  and  even  encouraged  by  the  squire, 
throughout  the  twelve  days  of  Christmas,  provided  every 
thing  was  done  conformably  to  ancient  usage.  Here 
were  kept  up  the  old  games  of  hoodman  blind,  shoe  the 
wild  mare,  hot  cockles,  steal  the  white  loaf,  bob  apple, 
and  snap  dragon :  the  Yule  clog  and  Christmas  candle 
were  regularly  burnt,  and  the  mistletoe,  with  its  white 


278  THE  SKETCHBOOK. 

berries,  liung  up,  to  the  imminent  peril  of  all  the  pretty 
housemaids.* 

So  intent  were  the  servants  upon  their  sports  that  we 
had  to  ring  repeatedly  before  we  could  make  ourselves 
heard.  On  our  arrival  being  announced,  the  squire  came 
out  to  receive  us,  accompanied  by  his  two  other  sons ; 
one  a  young  officer  in  the  army,  home  on  leave  of  ab- 
sence ;  the  other  an  Oxonian,  just  from  the  university. 
The  squire  was  a  fine,  healthy-looking  old  gentleman, 
with  silver  hair  curling  lightly  round  an  open  florid  coun- 
.tenance ;  in  which  the  physiognomist,  with  the  advan- 
tage, like  myself,  of  a  previous  hint  or  two,  might  dis- 
cover a  singular  mixture  of  whim  and  benevolence. 

The  family  meeting  was  warm  and  affectionate  :  as  the 
evening  was  far  advanced,  the  squire  v/ould  not  permit 
us  to  change  our  travelling  dresses,  but  ushered  us  at 
once  to  the  company,  which  was  assembled  in  a  large  old- 
fashioned  hall.  It  was  composed  of  different  branches 
jof  a  numerous  family  connection,  where  there  were  the 
usual  proportion  of  old  uncles  and  aunts,  comfortable 
married  dames,  superannuated  spinsters,  blooming  coun- 
try cousins,  half -fledged  striplings,  and  bright -eyed 
boarding-school  hoydens.  They  were  variously  occupied ; 
some  at  a  round  game  of  cards ;  others  conversing  around 


*  The  mistletoe  is  still  hung  up  in  farmhouses  and  kitchens  at  Christ- 
mas ;  and  the  young  men  have  the  privilege  of  kissing  the  girls  under 
it,  plucking  each  time  a  berry  from  the  bush.  When  the  berries  are  all 
plucked,  the  privilege  ceases. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  279 

the  fireplace ;  at  one  end  of  the  hall  was  a  group  of  the 
young  folks,  some  nearly  grown  up,  others  of  a  more  ten- 
der and  budding  age,  fully  engrossed  by  a  merry  game ; 
and  a  profusion  of  wooden  horses,  penny  trumpets,  and 
tattered  dolls,  about  the  floor,  showed  traces  of  a  troop 
of  little  fairy  beings,  who,  having  frolicked  through  a 
happy  day,  had  been  carried  off  to  slumber  through  a 
peaceful  night. 

While  the  mutual  greetings  were  going  on  between 
young  Bracebridge  and  his  relatives,  I  had  time  to  scan 
the  apartment.  I  have  called  it  a  hall,  for  so  it  had  cer- 
tainly been  in  old  times,  and  the  squire  had  evidently  en- 
deavored to  restore  it  to  something  of  its  primitive  state. 
Over  the  heavy  projecting  fireplace  was  suspended  a  pic- 
ture of  a  warrior  in  armor,  standing  by  a  white  horse, 
and  on  the  opposite  wall  hung  a  helmet,  buckler,  and 
lance.  At  one  end  an  enormous  pair  of  antlers  were  in- 
serted in  the  wall,  the  branches  serving  as  hooks  on 
which  to  suspend  hats,  whips,  and  spurs;  and  in  the  cor- 
ners of  the  apartment  were  fowling-pieces,  fishing-rods, 
and  other  sporting  implements.  The  furniture  was  of 
the  cumbrous  workmanship  of  former  days,  though  some 
articles  of  modern  convenience  had  been  added,  and  the 
oaken  floor  had  been  carpeted;  so  that  the  whole  pre- 
sented an  odd  mixture  of  parlor  and  hall. 

The  grate  had  been  removed  from  the  wide  overwhelm- 
ing fireplace,  to  make  way  for  a  fire  of  wood,  in  the  midst 
of  which  was  an  enormous  log  glowing  and  blazing,  and 


280  THE  8EETGE-B00K. 

sending  forth  a  vast  volume  of  light  and  heat :  this  I 
understood  was  the  Yule  clog,  which  the  squire  was  par- 
ticular in  having  brought  in  and  illumined  on  a  Christ- 
mas eve,  according  to  ancient  custom.* 

It  was  really  delightful  to  see  the  old  squire  seated  in 
his  hereditary  elbow  chair,  by  the  hospitable  fireside  of 
his  ancestors,  and  looking  around  him  like  the  sun  of  a 
system,  beaming  warmth  and  gladness  to  every  heart. 
Even  the  very  dog  that  lay  stretched  at  his  feet,  as  he 
lazily  shifted  his  position  and  yawned,  would  look  fondly 
up  in  his  master's  face,  wag  his  tail  against  the  floor, 
and  stretch  himself  again  to  sleep,  confident  of  kindness 

*  The  Yule  clog  is  a  great  log  of  wood,  sometimes  the  root  of  a  tree, 
brought  into  the  house  with  great  ceremony,  on  Christmas  eve,  laid  in 
the  fireplace,  and  lighted  with  the  brand  of  last  year's  clog.  While  it 
lasted,  there  was  great  drinking,  singing,  and  telling  of  tales.  Some- 
times it  was  accompanied  by  Christmas  candles  ;  but  in  the  cottages  the 
only  light  was  from  the  ruddy  blaze  of  the  great  wood  fire.  The  Yule 
clog  was  to  burn  all  night ;  if  it  went  out,  it  was  considered  a  sign  of 
ill  luck. 

Herriek  mentions  it  in  one  of  his  songs  : — 

Come,  bring  with  a  noise, 

My  merrie,  merrie  boyes. 
The  Christmas  log  to  the  firing ; 

While  my  good  dame,  she 

Bids  ye  all  be  free, 
And  drink  to  your  hearts  desiring. 

The  Yule  clog  is  still  burnt  in  many  farmhouses  and  kitchens  in  Eng- 
land, particularly  in  the  north,  and  there  are  several  superstitions  con- 
nected with  it  among  the  peasantry.  If  a  squinting  person  come  to  the 
house  while  it  is  burning,  or  a  person  barefooted,  it  is  considered  an  ill 
omen.  The  brand  remaining  from  the  Yule  clog  is  carefully  put  away 
to  light  the  next  year's  Christmas  fire. 


0HBI8TMA8  EYE.  281 

and  protection.  There  is  an  emanation  from  the  heart 
in  genuine  hospitality  which  cannot  be  described,  but 
is  immediately  felt,  and  puts  the  stranger  at  once  at 
his  ease.  I  had  not  been  seated  many  minutes  by  the 
comfortable  hearth  of  the  worthy  old  cavalier,  before  I 
found  myself  as  much  at  home  as  if  I  had  been  one  of 
the  family. 

Supper  was  announced  shortly  after  our  arrival.  It 
was  served  up  in  a  spacious  oaken  chamber,  the  panels 
of  which  shone  with  wax,  and  around  which  were  several 
family  portraits  decorated  with  holly  and  ivy.  Besides 
the  accustomed  lights,  two  great  wax  tapers,  called 
Christmas  candles,  wreathed  with  greens,  were  placed 
on  a  highly-polished  beaufet  among  the  family  plate. 
The  table  was  abundantly  spread  with  substantial  fare ; 
but  the  squire  made  his  supper  of  frumenty,  a  dish 
made  of  wheat  cakes  boiled  in  milk,  with  rich  spices, 
being  a  standing  dish  in  old  times  for  Christmas  eve. 

I  was  happy  to  find  my  old  friend,  minced  pie,  in  the 
retinue  of  the  feast;  and  finding  him  to  be  perfectly 
orthodox,  and  that  I  need  not  be  ashamed  of  my  pre- 
dilection, I  greeted  him  with  all  the  warmth  wherewith 
we  usually  greet  an  old  and  very  genteel  acquaintance. 

The  mirth  of  the  company  was  greatly  promoted  by 
the  humors  of  an  eccentric  personage  whom  Mr.  Brace- 
bridge  always  addressed  with  the  quaint  appellation  of 
Master  Simon.  He  was  a  tight  brisk  little  man,  with 
the  air  of  an  arrant  old  bachelor.     His  nose  was  shaped 


282  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

like  the  bill  of  a  parrot ;  his  face  slightly  pitted  with  the 
small-pox,  with  a  dry  perpetual  bloom  on  it,  like  a  frost- 
bitten leaf  in  autumn.  He  had  an  eye  of  great  quickness 
and  vivacity,  with  a  drollery  and  lurking  waggery  of  ex- 
pression that  was  irresistible.  He  was  evidently  the  wit 
of  the  family,  dealing  very  much  in  sly  jokes  and  innuen- 
does with  the  ladies,  and  making  infinite  merriment  by 
harping  upon  old  themes  ;  which,  unfortunately,  my  ig- 
norance of  the  family  chronicles  did  not  permit  me  to  en- 
joy. It  seemed  to  be  his  great  delight  during  supper  to 
keep  a  young  girl  next  him  in  a  continual  agony  of  stifled 
laughter,  in  spite  of  her  awe  of  the  reproving  looks  of  her 
mother,  who  sat  opposite.  Indeed,  he  was  the  idol  of  the 
younger  part  of  the  company,  who  laughed  at  every  thing 
he  said  or  did,  and  at  every  turn  of  his  countenance ;  I 
could  not  wonder  at  it,  for  he  must  have  been  a  miracle  of 
accomplishments  in  their  eyes.  He  could  imitate  Punch 
and  Judy ;  make  an  old  woman  of  his  hand,  with  the  as- 
sistance of  a  burnt  cork  and  pocket-handkerchief ;  and  cut 
an  orange  into  such  a  ludicrous  caricature,  that  the  young 
folks  were  ready  to  die  with  laughing. 

I  was  let  briefly  into  his  history  by  Frank  Brace- 
bridge.  He  was  an  old  bachelor,  of  a  small  independent 
income,  which,  by  careful  management,  was  sufficient  for 
all  his  wants.  He  revolved  through  the  family  system 
like  a  vagrant  comet  in  its  orbit;  sometimes  visiting 
one  branch,  and  sometimes  another  quite  remote ;  as 
is  often  the  case  with  gentlemen  of  extensive  connections 


CHRISTMAS  EVE,  283 

and  small  fortunes  in  England.  He  had  a  chirping 
buoyant  disposition,  always  enjoying  the  present  mo- 
ment ;  and  his  frequent  change  of  scene  and  company 
prevented  his  acquiring  those  rusty  unaccommodating 
habits,  with  which  old  bachelors  are  so  uncharitably 
charged.  He  was  a  complete  family  chronicle,  being- 
versed  in  the  genealogy,  history,  and  intermarriages  of 
the  whole  house  of  Bracebridge,  which  made  him  a 
great  favorite  with  the  old  folks  ;  he  was  a  beau  of  all 
the  elder  ladies  and  superannuated  spinsters,  among 
whom  he  was  habitually  considered  rather  a  young 
fellow,  and  he  was  master  of  the  revels  among  the 
children ;  so  that  there  was  not  a  more  popular  being 
in  the  sphere  in  which  he  moved  than  Mr.  Simon  Brace- 
bridge.  Of  late  years,  he  had  resided  almost  entirely 
with  the  squire,  to  whom  he  had  become  a  factotum, 
and  whom  he  particularly  delighted  by  jumping  with 
his  humor  in  respect  to  old  times,  and  by  having  a 
scrap  of  an  old  song  to  suit  every  occasion.  We  had 
presently  a  specimen  of  his  last-mentioned  talent,  for 
no  sooner  was  supper  removed,  and  spiced  wines  and 
other  beverages  peculiar  to  the  season  introduced,  than 
Master  Simon  was  called  on  for  a  good  old  Christmas 
song.  He  bethought  himself  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
with  a  sparkle  of  the  eye,  and  a  voice  that  was  by  no 
means  bad,  excepting  that  it  ran  occasionally  into  a  fal- 
setto, like  the  notes  of  a  split  reed,  he  quavered  forth  a 
quaint  old  ditty. 


284  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Now  Christmas  is  come, 

Let  us  beat  up  the  drum, 
And  call  all  our  neighbors  together, 

And  when  they  appear, 

Let  us  make  them  such  cheer. 
As  will  keep  out  the  wind  and  the  weather,  etc. 

The  supper  had  disposed  every  one  to  gayety,  and  an 
old  harper  was  summoned  from  the  servants'  hall,  where 
he  had  been  strumming  all  the  evening,  and  to  all  ap- 
pearance comforting  himself  with  some  of  the  squire's 
home-brewed.  He  was  a  kind  of  hanger-on,  I  was  told, 
of  the  establishment,  and,  though  ostensibly  a  resident 
of  the  village,  was  oftener  to  be  found  in  the  squire's 
kitchen  than  his  own  home,  the  old  gentleman  being  fond 
of  the  sound  of  "  harp  in  hall." 

The  dance,  like  most  dances  after  supper,  was  a  merry 
one ;  some  of  the  older  folks  joined  in  it,  and  the  squire 
himself  figured  down  several  couple  with  a  partner,  with 
whom  he  affirmed  he  had  danced  at  every  Christmas  for 
nearly  half  a  century.  Master  Simon,  who  seemed  to  be 
a  kind  of  connecting  link  between  the  old  times  and  the 
new,  and  to  be  withal  a  little  antiquated  in  the  taste  of 
his  accomplishments,  evidently  piqued  himself  on  his 
dancing,  and  was  endeavoring  to  gain  credit  by  the  heel 
and  toe,  rigadoon,  and  other  graces  of  the  ancient  school ; 
but  he  had  unluckily  assorted  himself  with  a  little  romp- 
ing girl  from  boarding-school,  who,  by  her  wild  vivacity, 
kept  him   continually  on  the   stretch,  and  defeated  all 


0HBI8TMA8  EVB.  285 

his  sober  attempts  at  elegance : — such  are  the  ill-as- 
sorted matches  to  which  antique  gentlemen  are  unfor- 
tunately prone ! 

The  young  Oxonian,  on  the  contrary,  had  led  out  one 
of  his  maiden  aunts,  on  whom  the  rogue  played  a  thou- 
sand little  knaveries  with  impunity  :  he  was  full  of  prac- 
tical jokes,  and  his  delight  was  to  tease  his  aunts  and 
cousins ;  yet,  like  all  madcap  youngsters,  he  was  a  uni- 
versal favorite  among  the  women.  The  most  interesting 
couple  in  the  dance  was  the  young  officer  and  a  ward  of 
the  squire's,  a  beautiful  blushing  girl  of  seventeen.  From 
several  shy  glances  which  I  had  noticed  in  the  course  of 
the  evening,  I  suspected  there  was  a  little  kindness  grow- 
ing up  between  them ;  and,  indeed,  the  young  soldier  was 
just  the  hero  to  captivate  a  romantic  girl.  He  was  tall, 
slender,  and  handsome,  and,  like  most  young  British 
officers  of  late  years,  had  picked  up  various  small  accom- 
plishments on  the  continent — he  could  talk  French  and 
Italian — draw  landscapes,  sing  very  tolerably — dance  di- 
vinely ;  but,  above  all,  he  had  been  wounded  at  Water- 
loo : — what  girl  of  seventeen,  well  read  in  poetry  and 
romance,  could  resist  such  a  mirror  of  chivalry  and  per- 
fection ! 

The  moment  the  dance  was  over,  he  caught  up  a  gui- 
tar, and,  lolling  against  the  old  marble  fireplace,  in  an 
attitude  which  I  am  half  inclined  to  suspect  was  studied, 
began  the  little  French  air  of  the  Troubadour.  The 
squire,  however,  exclaimed  against  having  any  thing  on 


286  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Christmas  eve  but  good  old  English ;  upon  which  the 
young  minstrel,  casting  up  his  eye  for  a  moment,  as  if  in 
an  effort  of  memory,  struck  into  another  strain,  and,  with 
a  charming  air  of  gallantry,  gave  Herrick's  "  Night-Piece 
to  Julia." 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee. 

The  shooting  stars  attend  thee, 
And  the  elves  also, 
Whose  little  eyes  glow 

Like  the  sparks  of  lire,  befriend  thee. 

No  Will  o'  the  Wisp  mislight  thee  ; 
Nor  snake  nor  slow-worm  bite  thee  ; 

But  on,  on  thy  way. 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there  is  none  to  affright  thee. 

Then  let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber  ; 
What  though  the  moon  does  slumber. 

The  stars  of  the  night 

Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me, 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet, 
My  soul  I'll  pour  into  thee. 

The  song  might  or  might  not  have  been  intended  in 
compliment  to  the  fair  Julia,  for  so  I  found  his  partner 
was  called;  she,  however,  was  certainly  unconscious  of 
any  such  application,  for  she  never  looked  at  the  singer, 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  287 

but  kept  her  eyes  cast  upon  the  floor.  Her  face  was  suf- 
fused, it  is  true,  with  a  beautiful  blush,  and  there  was  a 
gentle  heaving  of  the  bosom,  but  all  that  was  doubtless 
caused  by  the  exercise  of  the  dance  ;  indeed,  so  great  was 
her  indijfference,  that  she  amused  herself  with  plucking 
to  pieces  a  choice  bouquet  of  hot-house  flowers,  and  by 
the  time  the  song  was  concluded  the  nosegay  lay  in  ruins 
on  the  floor. 

The  party  now  broke  up  for  the  night  with  the  kind- 
hearted  old  custom  of  shaking  hands.  As  I  passed 
through  the  hall,  on  my  way  to  my  chamber,  the  dying 
embers  of  the  Yule  clog  still  sent  forth  a  dusky  glow,  and 
had  it  not  been  the  season  when  "  no  spirit  dares  stir 
abroad,"  I  should  have  been  half  tempted  to  steal  from 
my  room  at  midnight,  and  peep  whether  the  fairies  might 
not  be  at  their  revels  about  the  hearth. 

My  chamber  was  in  the  old  part  of  the  mansion,  the 
ponderous  furniture  of  which  might  have  been  fabricated 
in  the  days  of  the  giants.  The  room  was  panelled  with 
cornices  of  heavy  carved  work,  in  which  flowers  and  gro- 
tesque faces  were  strangely  intermingled ;  and  a  row  of 
black-looking  portraits  stared  mournfully  at  me  from  the 
walls.  The  bed  was  of  rich,  though  faded  damask,  with 
a  lofty  tester,  and  stood  in  a  niche  opposite  a  bow  win- 
dow. I  had  scarcely  got  into  bed  when  a  strain  of  music 
seemed  to  break  forth  in  the  air  just  below  the  window. 
I  listened,  and  found  it  proceeded  from  a  band,  which  I 
concluded  to  be  the  waits  from  some  neighboring  village. 


288  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

They  went  round  the  house,  playing  under  the  windows. 
I  drew  aside  the  curtains  to  hear  them  more  distinctly. 
The  moonbeams  fell  through  the  upper  part  of  the  case- 
ment, partially  lighting  up  the  antiquated  apartment. 
The  sounds,  as  they  receded,  became  more  soft  and 
aerial,  and  seemed  to  accord  with  the  quiet  and  moon- 
light. I  listened  and  listened — they  became  more  and 
more  tender  and  remote,  and,  as  they  gradually  died 
away,  my  head  sunk  upon  the  pillow,  and  I  fell  asleep. 


CHRISTMAS    DAY. 

Dark  and  dull  night,  file  hence  away, 
And  give  the  honor  to  this  day 
That  sees  December  turn'd  to  May. 
******* 

Why  does  the  chilling  winter's  mome 
Smile  like  a  field  beset  with  corn  ? 
Or  smell  like  to  a  meade  new-shorne, 
Thus  on  the  sudden  ?— Come  and  see 
The  cause  why  things  thus  fragrant  be. 

Herrick. 

HEN  I  woke  the  next  morning,  it  seemed  as  if 
all  the  events, of  the  preceding  evening  had 
been  a  dream,  and  nothing  but  the  identity 
of  the  ancient  chamber  convinced  me  of  their  reality. 
While  I  lay  musing  on  my  pillow,  I  heard  the  sound  of 
little  feet  pattering  outside  of  the  door,  and  a  whispering 
consultation.  Presently  a  choir  of  small  voices  chanted 
forth  an  old  Christmas  carol,  the  burden  of  which  was — 

Rejoice,  our  Saviour  he  was  born 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning. 

I  rose  softly,  slipt  on  my  clothes,  opened  the  door  sud- 
denly, and  beheld  one  of  the  most  beautiful  little  fairy 
groups  that  a  painter  could  imagine.     It  consisted  of  a 
19  289 


290  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

boy  and  two  girls,  the  eldest  not  more  than  six,  and  love- 
ly as  seraphs.  They  were  going  the  rounds  of  the  house, 
and  singing  at  every  chamber  door ;  but  my  sudden  ap- 
pearance frightened  them  into  mute  bashfulness.  They 
remained  for  a  moment  playing  on  their  lips  with  their 
fingers,  and  now  and  then  stealing  a  shy  glance  from 
under  their  eyebrows,  until,  as  if  by  one  impulse,  they 
scampered  away,  and  as  they  turned  an  angle  of  the  gal- 
lery, I  heard  them  laughing  in  triumph  at  their  escape. 

Every  thing  conspired  to  produce  kind  and  happy  feel- 
ings in  this  strong -hold  of  old-fashioned  hospitality. 
The  window  of  my  chamber  looked  out  upon  what  in 
summer  would  have  been  a  beautiful  landscape.  There 
was  a  sloping  lawn,  a  fine  stream  winding  at  the  foot  of 
it,  and  a  track  of  park  beyond,  with  noble  clumps  of 
trees,  and  herds  of  deer.  At  a  distance  was  a  neat  ham- 
let, with  the  smoke  from  the  cottage  chimneys  hanging 
over  it ;  and  a  church  with  its  dark  spire  in  strong  relief 
against  the  clear,  cold  sky.  The  house  was  surrounded 
with  evergreens,  according  to  the  English  custom,  which 
would  have  given  almost  an  appearance  of  summer ;  but 
the  morning  was  extremely  frosty ;  the  light  vapor  of  the 
preceding  evening  had  been  precipitated  by  the  cold,  and 
covered  all  the  trees  and  every  blade  of  grass  with  its 
fine  crystallizations.  The  rays  of  a  bright  morning  sun 
had  a  dazzling  effect  among  the  glittering  foliage.  A 
robin,  perched  upon  the  top  of  a  mountain  ash  that  hung 
its  clusters  of  red  berries  just  before  my  window,  was 


CHBISTMA8  DAT.  291 

basking  himself  in  the  sunshine,  and  piping  a  few  queru- 
lous notes;  and  a  peacock  was  displaying, all  the  glories 
of  his  train,  and  strutting  with  the  pride  and  gravity  of 
a  Spanish  grandee,  on  the  terrace  walk  below. 

I  had  scarcely  dressed  myself,  when  a  servant  ap- 
peared to  invite  me  to  family  prayers.  He  showed  me 
the  way  to  a  small  chapel  in  the  old  wing  of  the  house, 
where  I  found  the  principal  part  of  the  family  already 
assembled  in  a  kind  of  gallery,  furnished  with  cushions, 
hassocks,  and  large  prayer-books ;  the  servants  were 
seated  on  benches  below.  The  old  gentleman  read  pray- 
ers from  a  desk  in  front  of  the  gallery,  and  Master  Simon 
acted  as  clerk,  and  made  the  responses ;  and  I  must  do 
him  the  justice  to  say  that  he  acquitted  himself  with 
great  gravity  and  decorum. 

The  service  was  followed  by  a  Christmas  carol,  which 
Mr.  Bracebridge  himself  had  constructed  from  a  poem  of 
his  favorite  author,  Herrick ;  and  it  had  been  adapted  to 
an  old  church  melody  by  Master  Simon.  As  there  were 
several  good  voices  among  the  household,  the  effect  was 
extremely  pleasing ;  but  I  was  particularly  gratified  by 
the  exaltation  of  heart,  and  sudden  sally  of  grateful  feel- 
ing, with  which  the  worthy  squire  delivered  one  stanza ; 
his  eye  glistening,  and  his  voice  rambling  out  of  all  the 
bounds  of  time  and  tune  : 


"  *Tis  thou  that  erown'st  my  glittering  hearth 
With  guiltlesse  mirth, 


292  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

And  giv'st  me  Wassaile  bowles  to  drink 

Spiced  to  the  brink  : 
Lord,  'tis  thy  plenty-dropping  hand 

That  soiles  my  land  : 
And  giv'st  me  for  my  bushell  sowne, 

Twice  ten  for  one." 

I  afterwards  understood  that  early  morning  service  was 
read  on  every  Sunday  and  saints'  day  throughout  the 
year,  either  by  Mr.  Bracebridge  or  by  some  member  of 
the  family.  It  was  once  almost  universally  the  case  at 
the  seats  of  the  nobility  and  gentry  of  England,  and  it  is 
much  to  be  regretted  that  the  custom  is  falling  into  neg- 
lect; for  the  dullest  observer  must  be  sensible  of  the 
order  and  serenity  prevalent  in  those  households,  where 
the  occasional  exercise  of  a  beautiful  form  of  worship  in 
the  morning  gives,  as  it  were,  the  key-note  to  every  tem- 
per for  the  day,  and  attunes  every  spirit  to  harmony. 

Our  breakfast  consisted  of  what  the  squire  denomi- 
nated true  old  English  fare.  He  indulged  in  some  bitter 
lamentations  over  modern  breakfasts  of  tea  and  toast, 
which  he  censured  as  among  the  causes  of  modern  effem- 
inacy and  weak  nerves,  and  the  decline  of  old  English 
heartiness ;  and  though  he  admitted  them  to  his  table  to 
suit  the  palates  of  his  guests,  yet  there  was  a  brave  dis- 
play of  cold  meats,  wine,  and  ale,  on  the  sideboard. 

After  breakfast  I  walked  about  the  grounds  with  Frank 
Bracebridge  and  Master  Simon,  or,  Mr.  Simon,  as  he  was 
called  by  every  body  but  the  squire.     We  were  escorted 


0HRISTMA8  DAT.  293 

by  a  number  of  gentlemanlike  dogs,  that  seemed  loungers 
about  the  establishment ;  from  the  frisking  spaniel  to  the 
steady  old  stag-hound ;  the  last  of  which  was  of  a  race 
that  had  been  in  the  family  time  out  of  mind ;  they  were 
all  obedient  to  a  dog-whistle  which  hung  to  Master  Si- 
mon's button-hole,  and  in  the  midst  of  their  gambols 
would  glance  an  eye  occasionally  upon  a  small  switch  he 
carried  in  his  hand. 

The  old  mansion  had  a  still  more  venerable  look  in  the 
yellow  sunshine  than  by  pale  moonlight ;  and  I  could  not 
but  feel  the  force  of  the  squire's  idea,  that  the  formal 
terraces,  heavily  moulded  balustrades,  and  clipped  yew- 
trees,  carried  with  them  an  air  of  proud  aristocracy. 
There  appeared  to  be  an  unusual  number  of  peacocks 
about  the  place,  and  I  was  making  some  remarks  upon 
what  I  termed  a  flock  of  them,  that  were  basking  under 
a  sunny  wall,  when  I  was  gently  corrected  in  my  phrase- 
ology by  Master  Simon,  who  told  me  that,  according  to 
the  most  ancient  and  approved  treatise  on  hunting,  I 
must  say  a  muster  of  peacocks.  "In  the  same  way," 
added  he,  with  a  slight  air  of  pedantry,  "  we  say  a  flight 
of  doves  or  swallows,  a  bevy  of  quails,  a  herd  of  deer,  of 
wrens,  or  cranes,  a  skulk  of  foxes,  or  a  building  of  rooks." 
He  went  on  to  inform  me  that,  according  to  Sir  Anthony 
Fitzherbert,  we  ought  to  ascribe  to  this  bird  "  both  un- 
derstanding and  glory ;  for,  being  praised,  he  will  pres- 
ently set  up  his  tail,  chiefly  against  the  sun,  to  the  intent 
you  may  the  better  behold  the  beauty  thereol     But  at 


294  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  fall  of  tlie  leaf,  wlien  liis  tail  falleth,  lie  will  mourn 
and  hide  himself  in  corners,  till  his  tail  come  again  as  it 
was." 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  display  of  small  erudi- 
tion on  so  whimsical  a  subject ;  but  I  found  that  the  pea- 
cocks were  birds  of  some  consequence  at  the  hall;  for 
Frank  Bracebridge  informed  me  that  they  were  great 
favorites  with  his  father,  who  was  extremely  careful  to 
keep  up  the  breed ;  partly  because  they  belonged  to  chiv- 
alry, and  were  in  great  request  at  the  stately  banquets 
of  the  olden  time  ;  and  partly  because  they  had  a  pomp 
and  magnificence  about  them,  highly  becoming  an  old 
family  mansion.  Nothing,  he  was  accustomed  to  say, 
had  an  air  of  greater  state  and  dignity  than  a  peacock 
perched  upon  an  antique  stone  balustrade. 

Master  Simon  had  now  to  hurry  off,  having  an  appoint- 
ment at  the  parish  church  with  the  village  choristers, 
who  were  to  perform  some  music  of  his  selection.  There 
was  something  extremely  agreeable  in  the  cheerful  flow 
of  animal  spirits  of  the  little  man ;  and  I  confess  I  had 
been  somewhat  surprised  at  his  apt  quotations  from  au- 
thors who  certainly  were  not  in  the  range  of  every-day 
reading.  I  mentioned  this  last  circumstance  to  Frank 
Bracebridge,  who  told  me  with  a  smile  that  Master 
Simon's  whole  stock  of  erudition  was  confined  to  some 
half  a  dozen  old  authors,  which  the  squire  had  put  into 
his  hands,  and  which  he  read  over  and  over,  whenever  he 
had  a  studious  fit ;  as  he  sometimes  had  on  a  rainy  day, 


0HBI8TMA8  DAT.  295 

or  a  long  winter  evening.  Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbett's 
Book  of  Husbandry ;  Markham's  Country  Contentments ; 
the  Tretyse  of  Hunting,  by  Sir  Thomas  Cockayne, 
Knight;  Izaac  Walton's  Angler,  and  two  or  three  more 
such  ancient  worthies  of  the  pen,  were  his  standard 
authorities ;  and,  like  all  men  who  know  but  a  few  books, 
he  looked  up  to  them  with  a  kind  of  idolatry,  and  quoted 
them  on  all  occasions.  As  to  his  songs,  they  were  chiefly 
picked  out  of  old  books  in  the  squire's  library,  and 
adapted  to  tunes  that  were  popular  among  the  choice 
spirits  of  the  last  century.  His  practical  application  of 
scraps  of  literature,  however,  had  caused  him  to  be 
looked  upon  as  a  prodigy  of  book  \nowledge  by  all  the 
grooms,  huntsmen,  and  small  sportsmen  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

While  we  were  talking  we  heard  the  distant  tolling  of 
the  village  bell,  and  I  was  told  that  the  squire  was  a  lit- 
tle particular  in  having  his  household  at  church  on  a 
Christmas  morning ;  considering  it  a  day  of  pouring  out 
of  thanks  and  rejoicing ;  for,  as  old  Tusser  observed, 

**  At  Christmas  be  merry,  and  thankful  withal, 
And  feast  thy  poor  neighbors,  the  great  with  the  small." 

"If  you  are  disposed  to  go  to  church,"  said  Frank 
Bracebridge,  "I  can  promise  you  a  specimen  of  my 
cousin  Simon's  musical  achievements.  As  the  church 
is  destitute  of  an  organ,  he  has  formed  a  band  from 
the   village   amateurs,  and  established  a  musical  club 


296  TEE  SKETQE-BOOK. 

for  their  improvement;  he  has  also  sorted  a  choir,  as 
he  sorted  my  father's  pack  of  hounds,  according  to  the 
directions  of  Jervaise  Markham,  in  his  Country  Content- 
ments ;  for  the  bass  he  has  sought  out  all  the  *  deep,  sol- 
emn mouths,'  and  for  the  tenor  the  'loud-ringing  mouths,' 
among  the  country  bumpkins ;  and  for  '  sweet  mouths,' 
he  has  culled  with  curious  taste  among  the  prettiest 
lasses  in  the  neighborhood ;  though  these  last,  he  af- 
firms, are  the  most  difficult  to  keep  in  tune ;  your  pretty 
female  singer  being  exceedingly  wayward  and  capricious, 
and  very  liable  to  accident." 

As  the  morning,  though  frosty,  was  remarkably  fine 
and  clear,  the  most  of  the  family  walked  to  the  church, 
which  was  a  very  old  building  of  gray  stone,  and  stood 
near  a  village,  about  half  a  mile  from  the  park  gate. 
Adjoining  it  was  a  low  snug  parsonage,  which  seemed 
coeval  with  the  church.  The  front  of  it  was  perfectly 
matted  with  a  yew-tree,  that  had  been  trained  against 
its  walls,  through  the  dense  foliage  of  which,  apertures 
had  been  formed  to  admit  light  into  the  small  antique 
lattices.  As  we  passed  this  sheltered  nest,  the  parson 
issued  forth  and  preceded  us. 

I  had  expected  to  see  a  sleek  well-conditioned  pastor, 
such  as  is  often  found  in  a  snug  living  in  the  vicinity  of  a 
rich  patron's  table,  but  I  was  disappointed.  The  parson 
was  a  little,  meagre,  black-looking  man,  with  a  grizzled 
wig  that  was  too  wide,  and  stood  off  from  each  ear ;  so 
that  his  head  seemed  to  have  shrunk  away  within  it,  like 


CHRISTMAS  DAT.  297 

a  dried  filbert  in  its  shell.  He  wore  a  rusty  coat,  with 
great  skirts,  and  pockets  that  would  have  held  the 
church  Bible  and  prayer-book:  and  his  small  legs 
seemed  still  smaller,  from  being  planted  in  large  shoes, 
decorated  with  enormous  buckles. 

I  was  informed  by  Frank  Bracebridge,  that  the  parson 
had  been  a  chum  of  his  father's  at  Oxford,  and  had  re- 
ceived this  living  shortly  after  the  latter  had  come  to 
his  estate.  He  was  a  complete  black-letter  hunter,  and 
would  scarcely  read  a  work  printed  in  the  Koman  char- 
acter. The  editions  of  Caxton  and  Wynkin  de  Worde 
were  his  delight;  and  he  was  indefatigable  in  his  re- 
searches after  such  old  English  writers  as  have  fallen 
into  oblivion  from  their  worthlessness.  In  deference, 
perhaps,  to  the  notions  of  Mr.  Bracebridge,  he  had 
made  diligent  investigations  into  the  festive  rites  and 
holiday  customs  of  former  times ;  and  had  been  as  zeal- 
ous in  the  inquiry  as  if  he  had  been  a  boon  companion ; 
but  it  was  merely  with  that  plodding  spirit  with  which 
men  of  adust  temperament  follow  up  any  track  of  study, 
merely  because  it  is  denominated  learning ;  indifferent  to 
its  intrinsic  nature,  whether  it  be  the  illustration  of  the 
wisdom,  or  of  the  ribaldry  and  obscenity  of  antiquity. 
He  had  pored  over  these  old  volumes  so  intensely,  that 
they  seemed  to  have  been  reflected  in  his  countenance ; 
which,  if  the  face  be  indeed  an  index  of  the  mind,  might 
be  compared  to  a  title-page  of  black-letter. 

On  reaching  the  church  porch,  we  found  the  parson 


298  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

rebuking  the  gray-headed  sexton  for  having  used  mis- 
tletoe among  the  greens  with  which  the  church  was  deco- 
rated. It  was,  he  observed,  an  unholy  plant,  profaned  by 
having  been  used  by  the  Druids  in  their  mystic  ceremo- 
nies ;  and  though  it  might  be  innocently  employed  in  the 
festive  ornamenting  of  halls  and  kitchens,  yet  it  had  been 
deemed  by  the  Fathers  of  the  Church  as  unhallowed,  and 
totally  unfit  for  sacred  purposes.  So  tenacious  was  he  on 
this  point,  that  the  poor  sexton  was  obliged  to  strip  down 
a  great  part  of  the  humble  trophies  of  his  taste,  before 
the  parson  would  consent  to  enter  upon  the  service  of 
the  day. 

The  interior  of  the  church  was  venerable  but  simple ; 
on  the  walls  were  several  mural  monuments  of  the  Brace- 
bridges,  and  just  beside  the  altar  was  a  tomb  of  ancient 
workmanship,  on  which  lay  the  effigy  of  a  warrior  in  ar- 
mor, with  his  legs  crossed,  a  sign  of  his  having  been  a 
crusader.  I  was  told  it  was  one  of  the  family  who  had 
signalized  himself  in  the  Holy  Land,  and  the  same  whose 
picture  hung  over  the  fireplace  in  the  hall. 

During  service,  Master  Simon  stood  up  in  the  pew,  and 
repeated  the  responses  very  audibly ;  evincing  that  kind 
of  ceremonious  devotion  punctually  observed  by  a  gentle- 
man of  the  old  school,  and  a  man  of  old  family  connec- 
tions. I  observed  too  that  he  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a 
folio  praj^er-book  with  something  of  a  flourish ;  possibly 
to  show  off  an  enormous  seal-ring  which  enriched  one  of 
his  fingers,  and  which  had  the  look  of  a  family  relic.    But 


0ERI8TMA8  DAT.  299 

he  was  evidently  most  solicitous  about  the  musical  part 
of  the  service,  keeping  his  eye  fixed  intently  on  the  choir, 
and  beating  time  with  much  gesticulation  and  emphasis. 

The  orchestra  was  in  a  small  gallery,  and  presented  a 
most  whimsical  grouping  of  heads,  piled  one  above  the 
other,  among  which  I  particularly  noticed  that  of  the 
village  tailor,  a  pale  fellow  with  a  retreating  forehead 
and  chin,  who  played  on  the  clarionet,  and  seemed  to 
have  blown  his  face  to  a  point ;  and  there  was  another, 
a  short  pursy  man,  stooping  and  laboring  at  a  bass-viol, 
so  as  to  show  nothing  but  the  top  of  a  round  bald  head, 
like  the  egg  of  an  ostrich.  There  were  two  or  three 
pretty  faces  among  the  female  singers,  to  which  the 
keen  air  of  a  frosty  morning  had  given  a  bright  rosy 
tint;  but  the  gentlemen  choristers  had  evidently  been 
chosen,  like  old  Cremona  fiddles,  more  for  tone  than 
looks ;  and  as  several  had  to  sing  from  the  same  book, 
there  were  clusterings  of  odd  physiognomies,  not  unlike 
those  groups  of  cherubs  we  sometimes  see  on  country 
tombstones. 

The  usual  services  of  the  choir  were  managed  tolerably 
well,  the  vocal  parts  generally  lagging  a  little  behind  the 
instrumental,  and  some  loitering  fiddler  now  and  then 
making  up  for  lost  time  by  travelling  over  a  passage 
with  prodigious  celerity,  and  clearing  more  bars  than 
the  keenest  fox-hunter  to  be  in  at  the  death.  But  the 
great  trial  was  an  anthem  that  had  been  prepared  and 
arranged  by  Master  Simon,  and  on  which  he  had  founded 


300  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

great  expectation.  Unluckily  there  was  a  blunder  at  the 
very  outset;  the  musicians  became  flurried;  Master  Si- 
mon was  in  a  fever;  every  thing  went  on  lamely  and 
irregularly  until  they  came  to  a  chorus  beginning  "  Now 
let  us  sing  with  one  accord,"  which  seemed  to  be  a  signal 
for  parting  company  :  all  became  discord  and  confusion ; 
each  shifted  for  himself,  and  got  to  the  end  as  well,  or, 
rather,  as  soon  as  he  could,  excepting  one  old  chorister 
in  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles,  bestriding  and  pinching  a 
long  sonorous  nose,  who  happened  to  stand  a  little  apart, 
and,  being  wrapped  up  in  his  own  melody,  kept  on  a 
quavering  course,  wriggling  his  head,  ogling  his  book, 
and  winding  all  up  by  a  nasal  solo  of  at  least  three  bars, 
duration. 

The  parson  gave  us  a  most  erudite  sermon  on  the  rites 
and  ceremonies  of  Christmas,  and  the  propriety  of  ob- 
serving it  not  merely  as  a  day  of  thanksgiving,  but  of 
rejoicing ;  supporting  the  correctness  of  his  opinions  by 
the  earliest  usages  of  the  church,  and  enforcing  them  by 
the  authorities  of  Theophilus  of  Cesarea,  St.  Cyprian,  St. 
Chrysostom,  St.  Augustine,  and  a  cloud  more  of  saints 
and  fathers,  from  whom  he  made  copious  quotations.  I 
was  a  little  at  a  loss  to  perceive  the  necessity  of  such  a 
mighty  array  of  forces  to  maintain  a  point  which  no  one 
present  seemed  inclined  to  dispute ;  but  I  soon  found 
that  the  good  man  had  a  legion  of  ideal  adversaries  to 
contend  with ;  having,  in  the  course  of  his  researches  on 
the  subject  of  Christmas,  got  completely  embroiled  in  the 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  301 

sectarian  controversies  of  the  Eevolution,  when  the  Puri- 
tans made  such  a  fierce  assault  upon  the  ceremonies  of 
the  church,  and  poor  old  Christmas  was  driven  out  of  the 
land  by  proclamation  of  Parliament.*  The  worthy  par- 
son lived  but  with  times  past,  and  knew  but  little  of  tha 
present. 

Shut  up  among  worm-eaten  tomes  in  the  retirement  of 
his  antiquated  little  study,  the  pages  of  old  times  were 
to  him  as  the  gazettes  of  the  day ;  while  the  era  of  the 
Eevolution  was  mere  modern  history.  He  forgot  that 
nearly  two  centuries  had  elapsed  since  the  fiery  persecu- 
tion of  poor  mince-pie  throughout  the  land ;  when  plum 
porridge  was  denounced  as  "mere  popery,"  and  roast- 
beef  as  anti-christian ;  and  that  Christmas  had  been 
brought  in  again  triumphantly  with  the  merry  court  ol 
King  Charles  at  the  Eestoration.  He  kindled  into 
warmth  with  the  ardor  of  his  contest,  and  the  host  of 
imaginary  foes  with  whom  he  had  to  combat ;  he  had  a 
stubborn  conflict  witli  old  Prynne  and  two  or  three  other 

*  From  the  "Flying  Eagle,"  a  small  Gazette,  published  December 
24th,  1G52 — "  The  House  spent  much  time  this  day  about  the  business  of 
the  Navy,  for  settling  the  affairs  at  sea,  and  before  they  rose,  were  pre- 
sented with  a  terrible  remonstrance  against  Christmas  day,  grounded 
upon  divine  Scriptures,  2  Cor.  v.  16  ;  1  Cor.  xv.  14,  17  ;  and  in  honor  of 
the  Lord's  Day,  grounded  upon  these  Scriptures,  John  xs.  1  ;  Rev.  i.  10  ; 
Psalm  cxviii.  24  ;  Lev.  xxiii.  7,  11  ;  Mark  xv.  8  ;  Psalm  Ixxxiv.  10,  in 
which  Christmas  is  called  Anti-christ's  masse,  and  those  Massemongers 
and  Papists  who  observe  it,  etc.  In  consequence  of  which  Parliament 
spent  some  time  in  consultation  about  the  abolition  of  Christmas  day, 
passed  orders  to  that  effect,  and  resolved  to  sit  on  the  following  day, 
which  was  commonly  called  Christmas  day." 


302  THE  SKETGH-BOOE. 

forgotten  champions  of  tlie  Bound  Heads,  on  the  subject 
of  Christmas  festivity ;  and  concluded  by  urging  his 
hearers,  in  the  most  solemn  and  affecting  manner,  to 
stand  to  the  traditional  customs  of  their  fathers,  and 
feast  and  make  merry  on  this  joyful  anniversary  of  the 
Church. 

I  have  seldom  known  a  sermon  attended  apparently 
with  more  immediate  effects ;  for  on  leaving  the  church 
the  congregation  seemed  one  and  all  possessed  with  the 
gayety  of  spirit  so  earnestly  enjoined  by  their  pastor. 
The  elder  folks  gathered  in  knots  in  the  church-yard, 
greeting  and  shaking  hands ;  and  the  children  ran  about 
crying  Ule !  Ule !  and  repeating  some  uncouth  rhymes,* 
which  the  parson,  who  had  joined  us,  informed  me  had 
been  handed  down  from  days  of  yore.  The  villagers 
doffed  their  hats  to  the  squire  as  he  passed,  giving  him 
the  good  wishes  of  the  season  with  every  appearance  of 
heartfelt  sincerity,  and  were  invited  by  him  to  the  hall, 
to  take  something  to  keep  out  the  cold  of  the  weather ; 
and  I  heard  blessings  uttered  by  several  of  the  poor, 
which  convinced  me  that,  in  the  midst  of  his  enjoyments, 
the  worthy  old  cavalier  had  not  forgotten  the  true  Christ- 
mas virtue  of  charity. 

On  our  way  homeward  his  heart  seemed  overflowed 
with  generous  and  happy  feelings.    As  we  passed  over  a 

•  '*  Ule  !  Ule  I 

Three  puddings  in  a  pule 
Crack  nuts  and  cry  ule  I  * 


CffMISTMAS  BAY.  303 

rising  ground  which  commanded  something  of  a  pros- 
pect, the  sounds  of  rustic  merriment  now  and  then 
reached  our  ears  :  the  squire  paused  for  a  few  moments, 
and  looked  around  with  an  air  of  inexpressible  benignity. 
The  beauty  of  the  day  was  of  itself  sufficient  to  inspire 
philanthropy.  Notwithstanding  the  frostiness  of  the 
morning,  the  sun  in  his  cloudless  journey  had  acquired 
sufficient  power  to  melt  away  the  thin  covering  of  snow 
from  every  southern  declivity,  and  to  bring  out  the  living 
green  which  adorns  an  English  landscape  even  in  mid- 
winter. Large  tracts  of  smiling  verdure  contrasted  with 
the  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  shaded  slopes  and  hollows. 
Every  sheltered  bank,  on  which  the  broad  rays  rested, 
yielded  its  silver  rill  of  cold  and  limpid  water,  glittering 
through  the  dripping  grass ;  and  sent  up  slight  exhala- 
tions to  contribute  to  the  thin  haze  that  hung  just  above 
the  surface  of  the  earth.  There  was  something  truly 
cheering  in  this  triumph  of  warmth  and  verdure  over  the 
frosty  thraldom  of  winter ;  it  was,  as  the  squire  observed, 
an  emblem  of  Christmas  hospitality,  breaking  through 
the  chills  of  ceremony  and  selfishness,  and  thawing  every 
heart  into  a  flow.  He  pointed  with  pleasure  to  the  indi- 
cations of  good  cheer  reeking  from  the  chimneys  of  the 
comfortable  farmhouses,  and  low  thatched  cottages.  "  I 
love,"  said  he,  '*to  see  this  day  well  kept  by  rich  and 
poor ;  it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  one  day  in  the  year,  at 
least,  when  you  are  sure  of  being  welcome  wherever  you 
go,  and  of  having,  as  it  were,  the  world  thrown  all  open  to 


304  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

you ;  and  I  am  almost  disposed  to  join  with  Poor  Kobin, 
in  his  malediction  on  every  churlish  enemy  to  this  honest 
festival — 

"Those  who  at  Christmas  do  repine 

And  would  fain  hence  dispatch  him, 
May  they  with  old  Duke  Humphry  dine, 
Or  else  may  Squire  Ketch  catch  'em." 

The  squire  went  on  to  lament  the  deplorable  decay  of 
the  games  and  amusements  which  were  once  prevalent  at 
this  season  among  the  lower  orders,  and  countenanced  by 
the  higher ;  when  the  old  halls  of  the  castles  and  manor-' 
houses  were  thrown  open  at  daylight;  when  the  tables 
were  covered  with  brawn,  and  beef,  and  humming  ale ; 
when  the  harp  and  the  carol  resounded  all  day  long,  and 
when  rich  and  poor  were  alike  welcome  to  enter  and 
make  merry.*  "  Our  old  games  and  local  customs,"  said 
he,  "  had  a  great  effect  in  making  the  peasant  fond  of  his 
home,  and  the  promotion  of  them  by  the  gentry  made 
him  fond  of  his  lord.  They  made  the  times  merrier,  and 
kinder,  and  better,  and  I  can  truly  say,  with  one  of  our 
old  poets : 

*  "An  English  gentleman,  at  the  opening  of  the  great  day,  i.  e.  on 
Christmas  day  in  the  morning,  had  all  his  tenants  and  neighbors  enter 
his  hall  by  daybreak.  The  strong  beer  was  broached,  and  the  black- 
jacks went  plentifully  about  with  toast,  sugar  and  nutmeg,  and  good 
Cheshire  cheese.  The  Hackin  (the  great  sausage)  must  be  boiled  by  day- 
break, or  else  two  young  men  must  take  the  maiden  (i.  e.  the  cook)  by 
the  arms,  and  run  her  round  the  market-place  till  she  is  shamed  of  h«i 
laziness." — Bound  about  our  Sea-Coal  Fire, 


OHRISTMAS  DAT,  305 

*  I  like  them  well — the  curious  preciseness  ^ 

And  all-pretended  gravity  of  those 
That  seek  to  banish  hence  these  harmless  sports, 
Have  thrust  away  much  ancient  honesty.' 

"  The  nation,"  continued  he,  "  is  altered ;  we  have  al- 
most lost  our  simple  true-hearted  peasantry.  They  have 
broken  asunder  from  the  higher  classes,  and  seem  to 
think  their  interests  are  separate.  They  have  become 
too  knowing,  and  begin  to  read  newspapers,  listen  to  ale- 
house politicians,  and  talk  of  reform.  I  think  one  mode 
to  keep  them  in  good  humor  in  these  hard  times  would 
be  for  the  nobility  and  gentry  to  pass  more  time  on  their 
estates,  mingle  more  among  the  country  people,  and  set 
the  merry  old  English  games  going  again." 

Such  was  the  good  squire's  project  for  mitigating  pub- 
lic discontent :  and,  indeed,  he  had  once  attempted  to  put 
his  doctrine  in  practice,  and  a  few  years  before  had  kept 
open  house  during  the  holidays  in  the  old  style.  The 
country  people,  however,  did  not  understand  how  to  play 
their  parts  in  the  scene  of  hospitality ;  many  uncouth  cir- 
cumstances occurred ;  the  manor  was  overrun  by  all  the 
vagrants  of  the  country,  and  more  beggars  drawn  into  the 
neighborhood  in  one  week  than  the  parish  officers  could 
get  rid  of  in  a  year.  Since  then,  he  had  contented  him- 
self with  inviting  the  decent  part  of  the  neighboring 
peasantry  to  call  at  the  hall  on  Christmas  day,  and  with 
distributing  beef,  and  bread,  and  ale,  among  the  poor, 
that  they  might  make  merry  in  their  own  dwellings. 
20 


306  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

We  had  not  been  long  home  when  the  sound  of  musio 
was  heard  from  a  distance.  A  band  of  country  lads, 
without  coats,  their  shirt  sleeves  fancifully  tied  with  rib- 
bons, their  hats  decorated  with  greens,  and  clubs  in  their 
hands,  was  seen  advancing  up  the  avenue,  followed  by  a 
large  number  of  villagers  and  peasantry.  They  stopped 
before  the  hall  door,  where  the  music  struck  up  a  pecu- 
liar air,  and  the  lads  performed  a  curious  and  intricate 
dance,  advancing,  retreating,  and  striking  their  clubs  to- 
gether, keeping  exact  time  to  the  music;  while  one, 
whimsically  crowned  with  a  fox's  skin,  the  tail  of  which 
flaunted  down  his  back,  kept  capering  round  the  skirts  of 
the  dance,  and  rattling  a  Christmas  box  with  many  antic 
gesticulations. 

The  squire  eyed  this  fanciful  exhibition  with  great  in- 
terest and  delight,  and  gave  me  a  full  account  of  its  ori- 
gin, which  he  traced  to  the  times  when  the  Komans  held 
possession  of  the  island ;  plainly  proving  that  this  was  a 
lineal  descendant  of  the  sword  dance  of  the  ancients. 
"It  was  now,"  he  said,  "nearly  extinct,  but  he  had  acci- 
dentally met  with  traces  of  it  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
had  encouraged  its  revival ;  though,  to  tell  the  truth,  it 
was  too  apt  to  be  followed  up  by  the  rough  cudgel  play, 
and  broken  heads  in  the  evening." 

After  the  dance  was  concluded,  the  whole  party  was 
entertained  with  brawn  and  beef,  and  stout  home-brewed. 
The  squire  himself  mingled  among  the  rustics,  and  was 
received  with  awkward  demonstrations  of  deference  and 


CHRISTMAS  DAT,  307 

regard.  It  is  true  I  perceived  two  or  three  of  the 
younger  peasants,  as  they  were  raising  their  tankards  to 
their  mouths,  when  the  squire V^  back  was  turned,  making 
something  of  a  grimace,  and  giving  each  other  the  wink ; 
but  the  moment  they  caught  my  eye  they  pulled  grave 
faces,  and  were  exceedingly  demure.  With  Master  Si- 
mon, however,  they  all  seemed  more  at  their  ease.  His 
varied  occupations  and  amusements  had  made  him  well 
known  throughout  the  neighborhood.  He  was  a  visit- 
or at  every  farmhouse  and  cottage ;  gossiped  with  the 
farmers  and  their  wives;  romped  with  their  daughters; 
and,  like  that  type  of  a  vagrant  bachelor,  the  humblebee, 
tolled  the  sweets  from  all  the  rosy  lips  of  the  country 
round. 

The  bashfulness  of  the  guests  soon  gave  way  before 
good  cheer  and  affability.  There  is  something  genuine 
and  affectionate  in  the  gayety  of  the  lower  orders,  when 
it  is  excited  by  the  bounty  and  familiarity  of  those  above 
them  ;  the  warm  glow  of  gratitude  enters  into  their  mirth, 
and  a  kind  word  or  a  small  pleasantry  frankly  uttered  by 
a  patron,  gladdens  the  heart  of  the  dependent  more  than 
oil  and  wine.  When  the  squire  had  retired,  the  merri- 
ment increased,  and  there  was  much  joking  and  laughter, 
particularly  between  Master  Simon  and  a  hale,  ruddy- 
faced,  white-headed  farmer,  who  appeared  to  be  the  wit 
of  the  village ;  for  I  observed  all  his  companions  to  wait 
with  open  mouths  for  his  retorts,  and  burst  into  a  gra- 
tuitous laugh  before  they  could  well  understand  them. 


308  THE  8KETCn.B00K. 

The  whole  house  indeed  seemed  abandoned  to  merri- 
ment: as  I  passed  to  my  room  to  dress  for  dinner,  I 
heard  the  sound  of  music  in  a  small  court,  and  looking 
through  a  window  that  commanded  it,  I  perceived  a  band 
of  wandering  musicians,  with  pandean  pipes  and  tam- 
bourine ;  a  pretty  coquettish  housemaid  was  dancing  a 
jig  with  a  smart  country  lad,  while  several  of  the  other 
servants  were  looking  on.  In  the  midst  of  her  sport  the 
girl  caught  a  glimpse  of  my  face  at  the  window,  and,  col- 
oring up,  ran  off  with  an  air  of  roguish  affected  confusion. 


THE    CHRISTMAS   DINNER. 

Lo,  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feast  1 

Let  every  man  be  jolly, 
Eaclie  roome  with  yvie  leaves  is  drest, 

And  every  post  with  holly. 
Now  all  our  neighbours'  chimneys  smoke, 

And  Christmas  blocks  are  burning ; 
Their  ovens  they  with  bak't  meats  choke 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 

Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie, 
And  if,  for  cold,  it  hap  to  die, 
Wee'le  bury  't  in  a  Christmas  pye, 
And  evermore  be  merry. 

Withers'  Juvenilia. 


HAD  finished  my  toilet,  and  was  loitering  with 
Frank  Bracebridge  in  the  library,  when  we 
heard  a  distant  thwacking  sound,  which  he 
miormed  me  was  a  signal  for  the  serving  up  of  the 
dinner.  The  squire  kept  up  old  customs  in  kitchen  as 
well  as  hall ;  and  the  rolling-pin,  struck  upon  the  dresser 
by  the  cook,  summoned  the  servants  to  carry  in  the 
meats. 

Just  in  this  nick  the  cook  knock'd  thrice, 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice 
His  summons  did  obey  ; 


810  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Each  serving  man,  with  dish  in  hand, 
March'd  boldly  up,  like  our  train  band, 
Presented,  and  away.* 

The  dinner  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall,  where  the 
squire  always  held  his  Christmas  banquet.  A  blazing 
crackling  fire  of  logs  had  been  heaped  on  to  warm  the 
spacious  apartment,  and  the  flame  went  sparkling  and 
wreathing  up  the  wide-mouthed  chimney.  The  great 
picture  of  the  crusader  and  his  white  horse  had  been 
profusely  decorated  with  greens  for  the  occasion;  and 
holly  and  ivy  had  likewise  been  wreathed  round  the  hel- 
met and  weapons  on  the  opposite  wall,  which  I  under- 
tood  were  the  arms  of  the  same  warrior.  I  must  own,  by 
the  by,  I  had  strong  doubts  about  the  authenticity  of  the 
painting  and  armor  as  having  belonged  to  the  crusader, 
they  certainly  having  the  stamp  of  more  recent  days ;  but 
I  was  told  that  the  painting  had  been  so  considered  time 
out  of  mind ;  and  that,  as  to  the  armor,  it  had  been  found 
in  a  lumber-room,  and  elevated  to  its  present  situation 
by  the  squire,  who  at  once  determined  it  to  be  the  armor 
of  the  family  hero ;  and  as  he  was  absolute  authority  on 
all  such  subjects  in  his  own  household,  the  matter  had 
passed  into  current  acceptation.  A  sideboard  was  set 
out  just  under  this  chivalric  trophy,  on  which  was  a  dis- 
play of  plate  that  might  have  vied  (at  least  in  variety) 
with  Belshazzar's  parade  of  the  vessels  of  the  temple; 

*  Sir  John  Suckling. 


TEE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  311 

"  flagons,  cans,  cups,  beakers,  goblets,  basins,  and 
ewers ; "  the  gorgeous  utensils  of  good  companionship 
that  had  gradually  accumulated  through  many  genera- 
tions of  jovial  housekeepers.  Before  these  stood  the  two 
Yule  candles,  beaming  like  two  stars  of  the  first  magni- 
tude ;  other  lights  were  distributed  in  branches,  and  the 
whole  array  glittered  like  a  firmament  of  silver. 

We  were  ushered  into  this  banqueting  scene  with  the 
sound  of  minstrelsy,  the  old  harper  being  seated  on  a 
stool  beside  the  fireplace,  and  twanging  his  instrument 
with  a  vast  deal  more  power  than  melody.  Never  did 
Christmas  board  display  a  more  goodly  and  gracious 
assemblage  of  countenances ;  those  who  were  not  hand- 
some were,  at  least,  happy ;  and  happiness  is  a  rare  im- 
prover of  your  hard-favored  visage.  I  always  consider 
an  old  English  family  as  well  worth  studying  as  a  col- 
lection of  Holbein's  portraits  or  Albert  Durer's  prints. 
There  is  much  antiquarian  lore  to  be  acquired;  much 
knowledge  of  the  physiognomies  of  former  times.  Per- 
haps it  may  be  from  having  continually  before  their  eyes 
those  rows  of  old  family  portraits,  with  which  the  man- 
sions of  this  country  are  stocked ;  certain  it  is,  that  the 
quaint  features  of  antiquity  are  often  most  faithfully  per- 
petuated in  these  ancient  lines ;  and  I  have  traced  an  old 
family  nose  through  a  whole  picture  gallery,  legitimately 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation,  almost  from 
the  time  of  the  Conquest.  Something  of  the  kind  was  to 
be  observed  in  the  worthy  company  around  me.     Many 


312  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

of  their  faces  had  evidently  originated  in  a  Gothic  age, 
and  been  merely  copied  by  succeeding  generations ;  and 
there  was  one  little  girl  in  particular,  of  staid  demeanor, 
with  a  high  Eoman  nose,  and  an  antique  vinegar  aspect, 
who  was  a  great  favorite  of  the  squire's,  being,  as  he  said, 
a  Bracebridge  all  over,  and  the  very  counterpart  of  one 
of  his  ancestors  who  figured  in  the  court  of  Henry  YIII. 

The  parson  said  grace,  which  was  not  a  short  familiar 
one,  such  as  is  commonly  addressed  to  the  Deity  in  these 
unceremonious  days;  but  a  long,  courtly,  well- worded 
one  of  the  ancient  school.  There  was  now  a  pause,  as  if 
something  was  expected;  when  suddenly  the  butler  en- 
tered the  hall  with  some  degree  of  bustle :  he  was  at- 
tended by  a  servant  on  each  side  with  a  large  wax-light, 
and  bore  a  silver  dish,  on  which  was  an  enormous  pig's 
head,  decorated  with  rosemary,  with  a  lemon  in  its 
mouth,  which  was  placed  with  great  formality  at  the 
head  of  the  table.  The  moment  this  pageant  made  its 
appearance,  the  harper  struck  up  a  flourish  ;  at  the  con- 
clusion of  which  the  young  Oxonian,  on  receiving  a  hint 
from  the  squire,  gave,  with  an  air  of  the  most  comic  grav- 
ity, an  old  carol,  the  first  verse  of  which  was  as  follows : 

Caput  apri  def  ero 

Reddens  laudes  Domino, 
The  boar's  head  in  hand  bring  I, 
With  garlands  gay  and  rosemary, 
I  pray  you  all  synge  merrily 

Qui  estis  in  convivio. 


TEE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER,  313 

Thougli  prepared  to  witness  many  of  these  little  eccen- 
tricities, from  being  apprised  of  the  peculiar  hobby  of 
mine  host ;  yet,  I  confess,  the  parade  with  which  so  odd 
a  dish  was  introduced  somewhat  perplexed  me,  until  I 
gathered  from  the  conversation  of  the  squire  and  the  par- 
son, that  it  was  meant  to  represent  the  bringing  in  of  the 
boar's  head;  a  dish  formerly  served  up  with  much  cere- 
mony and  the  sound  of  minstrelsy  and  song,  at  great 
tables,  on  Christmas  day.  "  I  like  the  old  custom,"  said 
the  squire,  "  not  merely  because  it  is  stately  and  pleasing 
in  itself,  but  because  it  was  observed  at  the  college  at 
Oxford  at  which  I  was  educated.  Yfhen  I  hear  the 
old  song  chanted,  it  brings  to  mind  the  time  when 
I  was  young  and  gamesome — and  the  noble  old  college 
hall — and  my  fellow-students  loitering  about  in  their 
black  gowns  ;  many  of  whom,  poor  lads,  are  now  in  their 
graves ! " 

The  parson,  however,  whose  mind  was  not  haunted  by 
such  associations,  and  who  was  always  more  taken  up 
with  the  text  than  the  sentiment,  objected  to  the  Ox- 
onian's version  of  the  carol ;  which  he  affirmed  v/as  dif- 
ferent from  that  sung  at  college.  He  went  on,  with  the 
dry  perseverance  of  a  commentator,  to  give  the  college 
reading,  accompanied  by  sundry  annotations  ;  address- 
ing himself  at  first  to  the  company  at  large  ;  but  finding 
their  attention  gradually  diverted  to  other  talk  and  other 
objects,  he  lowered  his  tone  as  his  number  of  auditors 
diminished,  until  he  concluded  his  remarks  in  asi  under 


314  THE  SKETCHBOOK. 

voice,  to  a  fat-headed  old  gentleman  next  him,  who  was 
silently  engaged  in  the  discussion  of  a  huge  plateful  of 
turkey."^ 

The  table  was  literally  loaded  with .  good  cheer,  and 
presented  an  epitome  of  country  abundance,  in  this  sea- 
son of  overflowing  larders.  A  distinguished  post  was 
allotted  to  "ancient  sirloin,"  as  mine  host  termed  it; 
being,  as  he  added,  "  the  standard  of  old  English  hospi- 
tality, and  a  joint  of  goodly  presence,  and  full  of  expec- 
tation." There  were  several  dishes  quaintly  decorated, 
and  which  had  evidently  something  traditional  in  their 

*  The  old  ceremony  of  serving  up  the  boar's  head  on  Christmas  day  is 
still  observed  in  the  hall  of  Queen's  College,  Oxford.  I  was  favored  by 
the  parson  with  a  copy  of  the  carol  as  now  sung,  and  as  it  may  be  accept- 
able to  such  of  my  readers  as  are  curious  in  these  grave  and  learned  mat- 
ters, I  give  it  entire. 

The  boar's  head  in  hand  bear  I, 
Bedeck'd  with  bays  and  rosemary ; 
And  I  pray  you,  my  masters,  be  merry 
Quot  estis  in  convivio. 

Caput  apri  defero, 

Reddens  laudes  domino. 

The  boar's  head,  as  I  understand, 
Is  the  rarest  dish  in  all  this  land, 
Which  thus  bedeck'd  with  a  gay  garland 
Let  us  servire  cantico. 
Caput  apri  defero,  etc. 

Our  steward  hath  provided  this 
In  honor  of  the  King  of  Bliss, 
Which  on  this  day  to  be  served  is 
In  Reginensi  Atrio. 
Caput  apri  defero, 

etc.,  etc.,  etc. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  315 

embellisliments ;  but  about  wliicli,  as  I  did  not  like  to 
appear  over-curious,  I  asked  no  questions. 

I  could  not,  however,  but  notice  a  pie,  magnificently 
decorated  with  peacock's  feathers,  in  imitation  of  the  tail 
of  that  bird,  which  overshadowed  a  considerable  tract  of 
the  table.  This,  the  squire  confessed,  with  some  little 
hesitation,  was  a  pheasant  pie,  though  a  peacock  pie 
was  certainly  the  most  authentical ;  but  there  had  been 
such  a  mortality  among  the  peacocks  this  season,  that  he 
could  not  prevail  upon  himself  to  have  one  killed.* 

It  would  be  tedious,  perhaps,  to  my  wiser  readers,  who 
may  not  have  that  foolish  fondness  for  odd  and  obsolete 
things  to  which  I  am  a  little  given,  were  I  to  mention  the 
other  make-shifts  of  this  worthy  old  humorist,  by  which 
he  was  endeavoring  to  follow  up,  though  at  humble  dis- 
tance, the  quaint  customs  of  antiquity.  I  was  pleased, 
however,  to  see  the  respect  shown  to  his  whims  by  his 

*  The  peacock  was  anciently  in  great  demand  for  stately  entertain- 
ments. Sometimes  it  was  made  into  a  pie,  at  one  end  of  which  the  head 
appeared  above  the  crust  in  all  its  plumage,  with  the  beak  richly  gilt ;  at 
the  other  end  the  tail  was  displayed.  Such  pies  were  served  up  at  the 
solemn  banquets  of  chivalry,  when  knights-errant  pledged  themselves  to 
undertake  any  perilous  enterprise,  whence  came  the  ancient  oath,  used 
by  Justice  Shallow,  ''  by  cock  and  pie." 

The  peacock  was  also  an  important  dish  for  the  Christmas  feast ;  and 
Massinger,  in  his  City  Madam,  gives  some  idea  of  the  extravagance  with 
which  this,  as  well  as  other  dishes,  was  prepared  for  the  gorgeous  revels 
of  the  olden  times  : — 

Men  may  talk  of  Country  Christmasses, 

Their  thirty  pound  butter'd  eggs,  their  pies  of  carps'  tongues  ; 

Their  pheasants  drench'd  with  ambergris  ;  the  carcases  of  three  foA 
weth&rs  Jiruised  for  gravy  to  maJce  sauce  for  a  single  peacock. 


316  THE  SKETOE-BOOK. 

children  and  relatives ;  who,  indeed,  entered  readily  into 
the  full  spirit  of  them,  and  seemed  all  well  versed  in 
their  parts ;  having  doubtless  been  present  at  many  a 
rehearsal.  I  was  amused,  too,  at  the  air  of  profound 
gravity  with  which  the  butler  and  other  servants  exe- 
cuted the  duties  assigned  them,  however  eccentric.  They 
had  an  old-fashioned  look;  having,  for  the  most  part, 
been  brought  up  in  the  household,  and  grown  into  keep- 
ing with  the  antiquated  mansion,  and  the  humors  of  its 
lord ;  and  most  probably  looked  upon  all  his  whimsical 
regulations  as  the  established  laws  of  honorable  house- 
keeping. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed,  the  butler  brought  in 
a  huge  silver  vessel  of  rare  and  curious  workmanship, 
which  he  placed  before  the  squire.  Its  appearance  was 
hailed  with  acclamation ;  being  the  Wassail  Bowl,  so  re- 
nowned in  Christmas  festivity.  The  contents  had  been 
prepared  by  the  squire  himself ;  for  it  was  a  beverage  in 
the  skilful  mixture  of  which  he  particularly  prided  him- 
self :  alleging  that  it  was  too  abstruse  and  complex  for 
the  comprehension  of  an  ordinary  servant.  It  was  a  po- 
tation, indeed,  that  might  well  make  the  heart  of  a  toper 
leap  within  him ;  being  composed  of  the  richest  and 
raciest  v/ines,  highly  spiced  and  sweetened,  with  roasted 
apples  bobbing  about  the  surface.* 

*  The  Wassail  Bowl  was  sometimes  composed  of  ale  instead  of  wine  ; 
with  nutmeg,  sugar,  toast,  ginger,  and  roasted  crabs  ;  in  this  way  the 
nut-brown  beverage  is  still  prepared  in  some  old  families,  and  round  the 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNEB.  817 

The  old  gentleman's  whole  countenance  beamed  with 
a  serene  look  of  indwelling  delight,  as  he  stirred  this 
mighty  bowl.  Having  raised  it  to  his  lips,  with  a  hearty 
wish  of  a  merry  Christmas  to  all  present,  he  sent  it  brim- 
ming round  the  board,  for  every  one  to  follow  his  ex- 
ample, according  to  the  primitive  style ;  pronouncing  it 
"the  ancient  fountain  of  good  feeling,  where  ail  hearts 
met  together."  "^ 

There  was  much  laughing  and  rallying  as  the  honest 
emblem  of  Christmas  joviality  circulated,  and  w^as  kissed 
rather  coyly  by  the  ladies.  When  it  reached  Master  Si- 
mon, he  raised  it  in  both  hands,  and  with  the  air  of  a 
boon  companion  struck  up  an  old  Wassail  chanson. 

The  brown  bowle, 

The  merry -brown  bowle, 

As  it.  goes  round  about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 

hearths  of  substantial  farmers  at  Christmas.     It  is  also  called  Lamb's 
Wooij  and  is  celebrated  by  Herrick  in  his  Twelfth  Night : 

Next  crowne  the  bowle  full 

With  gentle  Lamb's  Wool  ; 
Add  sugar,  nutmeg,  and  ginger 

With  store  of  ale  too  ; 

And  thus  ye  must  doe 
To  make  the  Wassaile  a  swinger. 

*  "The  custom  of  drinking  out  of  the  same  cup  gave  place  to  each 
having  his  cup.  When  the  steward  came  to  the  doore  with  the  Wassel, 
he  was  to  cry  three  times,  Wassel,  Yiassel,  Wassel,  and  then  the  chappeii 
(chaplein)  was  to  answer  with  a  song." — Arch^ologia. 


318  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Let  the  world  say  what  it  will, 
And  drink  your  fill  all  out-a. 

The  deep  canne, 

The  merry  deep  canne. 

As  thou  dost  freely  quaff-a» 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be  as  merry  as  a  king, 
And  sound  a  lusty  laugh-a.* 

Mixcli  of  the  conversation  during  dinner  turned  upon 
family  topics,  to  whicli  I  was  a  stranger.  There  was, 
however,  a  great  deal  of  rallying  of  Master  Simon  about 
some  gay  widow,  with  whom  he  was  accused  of  having 
a  flirtation.  This  attack  was  commenced  by  the  ladies ; 
but  it  was  continued  throughout  the  dinner  by  the  fat- 
headed  old  gentleman  next  the  parson,  with  the  perse- 
vering assiduity  of  a  slow  hound;  being  one  of  those 
long-winded  jokers,  who,  though  rather  dull  at  start- 
ing game,  are  unrivalled  for  their  talents  in  hunting  it 
down.  At  every  pause  in  the  general  conversation,  he 
renewed  his  bantering  in  pretty  much  the  same  terms ; 
winking  hard  at  me  with  both  eyes,  whenever  he  gave 
Master  Simon  what  he  considered  a  home  thrust.  The 
latter,  indeed,  seemed  fond  of  being  teased  on  the  sub- 
ject, as  old  bachelors  are  apt  to  be ;  and  he  took  occasion 
to  inform  me,  in  an  under  tone,  that  the  lady  in  question 

*  From  Poor  Robin's  Almanac. 


THE  GHEISTMA8  DmiTEB.  319 

was  a  prodigiously  fine  woman,  and  drove  lier  own  cur- 
ricle. 

The  dinner-time  passed  away  in  this  flow  of  innocent 
hilarity,  and,  though  the  old  hall  may  have  resounded 
in  its  time  with  many  a  scene  of  broader  rout  and  revel, 
yet  I  doubt  whether  it  ever  witnessed  more  honest  and 
genuine  enjoyment.  How  easy  it  is  for  one  benevolent 
being  to  diffuse  pleasure  around  him  ;  and  how  truly  is 
a  kind  heart  a  fountain  of  gladness,  making  every  thing 
in  its  vicinity  to  freshen  into  smiles !  the  joyous  disposi- 
tion of  the  worthy  squire  was  perfectly  contagious;  he 
was  happy  himself,  and  disposed  to  make  all  the  world 
happy ;  and  the  little  eccentricities  of  his  humor  did  but 
season,  in  a  manner,  the  sweetness  of  his  philanthropy. 

When  the  ladies  had  retired,  the  conversation,  as 
usual,  became  still  more  animated ;  many  good  things 
were  broached  which  had  been  thought  of  during  dinner, 
but  which  would  not  exactly  do  for  a  lady's  ear;  and 
though  I  cannot  positively  affirm  that  there  was  much 
wit  uttered,  yet  I  have  certainly  heard  many  contests  of 
rare  wit  produce  much  less  laughter.  Wit,  after  all,  is  a 
mighty  tart,  pungent  ingredient,  and  much  too  acid  for 
some  stomachs  ;  but  honest  good  humor  is  the  oil  and 
wine  of  a  merry  meeting,  and  there  is  no  jovial  compan- 
ionship equal  to  that  where  the  jokes  are  rather  small, 
and  the  laughter  abundant. 

The  squire  told  several  long  stories  of  early  college 
pranks  and  adventures,  in  some  of  which  the  parson  had 


320  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

been  a  sliarer ;  tliougli  in  looking  at  tlie  latter,  it  required 
some  effort  of  imagination  to  figure  sucli  a  little  dark 
anatomy  of  a  man  into  tlie  perpetrator  of  a  madcap  gam- 
bol. Indeed,  the  two  college  chums  presented  pictures 
of  what  men  may  be  made  by  their  different  lots  in  life. 
The  squire  had  left  the  university  to  live  lustily  on  his 
paternal  domains,  in  the  vigorous  enjoyment  of  prosper- 
ity and  sunshine,  and  had  flourished  on  to  a  hearty  and 
florid  old  age ;  whilst  the  poor  parson,  on  the  contrary, 
had  dried  and  withered  away,  among  dusty  tomes,  in  the 
silence  and  shadows  of  his  study.  Still  there  seemed  to 
be  a  spark  of  almost  extinguished  fire,  feebly  glimmering 
in  the  bottom  of  his  soul ;  and  as  the  squire  hinted  at  a 
fiij  story  of  the  parson  and  a  pretty  milkmaid,  whom 
they  once  met  on  the  banks  of  the  Isis,  the  old  gentle- 
man made  an  ^*  alphabet  of  faces,"  which,  as  far  as  I 
could  decipher  his  physiognomy,  I  verily  believe  was  in- 
dicative of  laughter  ; — indeed,  I  have  rarely  met  with  an 
old  gentleman  that  took  absolute  offence  at  the  imputed 
gallantries  of  his  youth. 

I  found  the  tide  of  wine  and  wassail  fast  gaining  on 
the  dry  land  of  sober  judgment.  The  company  grew 
merrier  and  louder  as  their  jokes  grew  duller.  Master 
Simon  was  in  as  chirping  a  humor  as  a  grasshopper  filled 
with  dew ;  his  old  songs  grew  of  a  warmer  complexion, 
and  he  began  to  talk  maudlin  about  the  widow.  He  even 
gave  a  long  song  about  the  wooing  of  a  widow,  which  he 
informed  me  Le  had  gathered  from  an  excellent  black- 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNEB.  321 

letter  work,  entitled  "  Cupid's  Solicitor  for  Love,"  con- 
taining store  of  good  advice  for  bachelors,  and  which  he 
•promised  to  lend  me  :  the  first  verse  was  to  this  effect : 

He  that  will  woo  a  widow  must  not  dally, 
He  must  make  hay  while  the  sun  doth  shine  ; 

He  must  not  stand  with  her,  shall  I,  shall  I, 
But  boldly  say  Widow,  thou  must  be  mine. 

This  song  inspired  the  fat-headed  old  gentleman,  who 
made  several  attempts  to  tell  a  rather  broad  story  out  of 
Joe  Miller,  that  was  pat  to  the  purpose ;  but  he  always 
stuck  in  the  middle,  every  body  recollecting  the  latter 
part  excepting  himself.  The  parson,  too,  began  to  show 
the  effects  of  good  cheer,  having  gradually  settled  down 
into  a  doze,  and  his  wig  sitting  most  suspiciously  on  one 
side.  Just  at  this  juncture  we  were  summoned  to  the 
drawing-room,  and,  I  suspect,  at  the  private  instigation 
of  mine  host,  whose  joviality  seemed  always  tempered 
with  a  proper  love  of  decorum. 

After  the  dinner  table  was  removed,  the  hall  was  given 
up  to  the  younger  members  of  the  family,  who,  prompted 
to  all  kind  of  noisy  mirth  by  the  Oxonian  and  Master 
Simon,  made  its  old  walls  ring  with  their  merriment,  as 
they  played  at  romping  games.  I  delight  in  witnessing 
the  gambols  of  children,  and  particularly  at  this  happy 
holiday  season,  and  could  not  help  stealing  out  of  the 
drawing-room  on  hearing  one  of  their  peals  of  laughter. 
I  found  them  at  the  game  of  blindman's-buff.  Master 
Simon,  who  was  the  leader  of  their  revels,  and  seemed 
21 


322  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

on  all  occasions  to  fulfil  the  office  of  that  ancient  po- 
tentate, the  Lord  of  Misrule,^  was  blinded  in  the  midst 
of  the  hall.  The  little  beings  were  as  busy  about  him  as 
the  mock  fairies  about  Falstaff ;  pinching  him,  plucking  at 
the  skirts  of  his  coat,  and  tickling  him  with  straws.  One 
fine  blue-eyed  girl  of  about  thirteen,  with  her  flaxen  hair 
all  in  beautiful  confusion,  her  frolic  face  in  a  glow,  her 
frock  half  torn  off  her  shoulders,  a  complete  picture  of  a 
romp,  was  the  chief  tormentor;  and,  from  the  slyness 
with  which  Master  Simon  avoided  the  smaller  game, 
and  hemmed  this  wild  little  nymph  in  corners,  and 
obliged  her  to  jump  shrieking  over  chairs,  I  suspected 
the  rogue  of  being  not  a  whit  more  blinded  than  was 
convenient. 

When  I  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  I  found  the 
company  seated  round  the  fire,  listening  to  the  parson, 
who  was  deeply  ensconced  in  a  high-backed  oaken  chair, 
the  work  of  some  cunning  artificer  of  yore,  which  had 
been  brought  from  the  library  for  his  particular  accom- 
modation. From  this  venerable  piece  of  furniture,  with 
which  his  shadowy  figure  and  dark  weazen  face  so  ad- 
mirably accorded,  he  was  dealing  out  strange  accounts  of 
the  popular  superstitions  and  legends  of  the  surrounding 
country,  with  which  he  had  become   acquainted  in  the 


*  At  Christmasse  there  was  in  the  Kinge's  house,  wheresoever  hee  was 
lodged,  a  lorde  of  misrule,  or  mayster  of  merie  disportes,  and  the  like  had 
ye  in  the  house  of  every  nobleman  of  honor,  or  good  worshippe,  were  he 
Bpirituall  or  temporall. — Stowe. 


TEE  GHBI8TMA8  DINNER,  323 

course  of  his  antiquarian  researches.  I  am  half  inclined 
to  think  that  the  old  gentleman  was  himself  somewhat 
tinctured  with  superstition,  as  men  are  very  apt  to  be 
who  live  a  recluse  and  studious  life  in  a  sequestered 
part  of  the  country,  and  pore  over  black-letter  tracts, 
so  often  filled  with  the  marvellous  and  supernatural. 
He  gave  us  several  anecdotes  of  the  fancies  of  the 
neighboring  peasantry,  concerning  the  effigy  of  the  cru- 
sader, which  lay  on  the  tomb  by  the  church  altar.  As 
it  was  the  only  monument  of  the  kind  in  that  part  of 
the  country,  it  had  always  been  regarded  with  feelings 
of  superstition  by  the  good  wives  of  the  village.  It  was 
said  to  get  up  from  the  tomb  and  walk  the  rounds  of 
the  church-yard  in  stormy  nights,  particularly  when  it 
thundered ;  and  one  old  woman,  whose  cottage  bordered 
on  the  church-yard,  had  seen  it  through  the  windows  of 
the  church,  when  the  moon  shone,  slowly  pacing  up  and 
down  the  aisles.  It  was  the  belief  that  some  wrong  had 
been  left  unredressed  by  the  deceased,  or  some  treasure 
hidden,  which  kept  the  spirit  in  a  state  of  trouble  and 
restlessness.  Some  talked  of  gold  and  jewels  buried  in 
the  tomb,  over  which  the  spectre  kept  watch ;  and  there 
was  a  story  current  of  a  sexton  in  old  times,  who  endeav- 
ored to  break  his  way  to  the  coffin  at  night,  but,  just  as 
he  reached  it,  received  a  violent  blow  from  the  marble 
hand  of  the  effigy,  which  stretched  him  senseless  on  the 
pavement.  These  tales  were  often  laughed  at  by  some  of 
the  sturdier  among  the  rustics,  yet,  when  night  came  on, 


324  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

there  were  many  of  tlie  stoutest  unbelieyers  that  were 
shy  of  venturing  aJone  in  the  footpath  that  led  across  the 
church-yard. 

From  these  and  other  anecdotes  that  followed,  the  cru- 
sader appeared  to  be  the  favorite  hero  of  ghost  stories 
throughout  the  vicinity.  His  picture,  which  hung  up  in 
the  hall,  was  thought  by  the  servants  to  have  something 
supernatural  about  it ;  for  they  remarked  that,  in  what- 
ever part  of  the  hall  you  v/ent,  the  eyes  of  the  warrior 
were  still  fixed  on  you.  The  old  porter's  wife,  too,  at  the 
lodge,  who  had  been  born  and  brought  up  in  the  family, 
and  was  a  great  gossip  among  the  maid  servants,  affirmed, 
that  in  her  young  days  she  had  often  heard  say,  that  on 
Midsummer  eve,  when  it  was  well  known  all  kinds  of 
ghosts,  goblins,  and  fairies  become  visible  and  walk 
abroad,  the  crusader  used  to  mount  his  horse,  come 
down  from  his  picture,  ride  about  the  house,  down  the 
avenue,  and  so  to  the  church  to  visit  the  tomb ;  on  which 
occasion  the  church  door  most  civilly  swung  open  of  it- 
self ;  not  that  he  needed  it ;  for  he  rode  through  closed 
gates  and  even  stone  walls,  and  had  been  seen  by  one  of 
the  dairy  maids  to  pass  between  two  bars  of  the  great 
park  gate,  making  himself  as  thin  as  a  sheet  of  paper. 

All  these  superstitions  I  found  had  been  very  much 
countenanced  by  the  squire,  who,  though  not  supersti- 
tious himself,  was  very  fond  of  seeing  others  so.  He  lis- 
tened to  every  goblin  tale  of  the  neighboring  gossips 
with  infinite  gravity,  and  held  the  porter's  wife  in  high 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  325 

favor  on  account  of  her  talent  for  the  marvellous.  He 
was  himself  a  great  reader  of  old  legends  and  romances, 
and  often  lamented  that  he  could  not  believe  in  them; 
for  a  superstitious  person,  he  thought,  must  live  in  a 
kind  of  fairy  land. 

Whilst  we  were  all  attention  to  the  parson's  stories,  our 
ears  were  suddenly  assailed  by  a  burst  of  heterogeneous 
sounds  from  the  hall,  in  which  were  mingled  something 
like  the  clang  of  rude  minstrelsy,  with  the  uproar  of 
many  small  voices  and  girlish  laughter.  The  door  sud- 
denly flew  open,  and  a  train  came  trooping  into  the  room, 
that  might  almost  have  been  mistaken  for  the  breaking 
up  of  the  court  of  Fairy.  That  indefatigable  spirit.  Mas- 
ter Simon,  in  the  faithful  discharge  of  his  duties  as  lord 
of  misrule,  had  conceived  the  idea  of  a  Christmas  mum- 
mery or  masking ;  and  having  called  in  to  his  assistance 
the  Oxonian  and  the  young  officer,  who  were  equally  ripe 
for  any  thing  that  should  occasion  romping  and  merri- 
ment, they  had  carried  it  into  instant  effect.  The  old 
housekeeper  had  been  consulted;  the  antique  clothes- 
presses  and  wardrobes  rummaged,  and  made  to  yield  up 
the  relics  of  finery  that  had  not  seen  the  light  for  several 
generations ;  the  younger  part  of  the  company  had  been 
privately  convened  from  the  parlor  and  hall,  and  the 
whole  had  been  bedizened  out,  into  a  burlesque  imita- 
tion of  an  antique  mask.  * 

*  Maskings  or  mummeries  were  favorite  sports  at  Christmas  in  old 
times  ;  and  the  wardrobes  at  halls  and  manor-houses  were  often  laid 


326  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Master  Simon  led  the  van,  as  "Ancient  Christmas," 
quaintly  apparelled  in  a  ruff,  a  short  cloak,  which  had 
very  much  the  aspect  of  one  of  the  old  housekeeper's 
petticoats,  and  a  hat  that  might  have  served  for  a  village 
steeple,  and  must  indubitably  have  figured  in  the  days  of 
the  Covenanters.  From  under  this  his  nose  curved  bold- 
ly forth,  flushed  with  a  frost-bitten  bloom,  that  seemed 
the  very  trophy  of  a  December  blast.  He  was  accom- 
panied by  the  blue -eyed  romp,  dished  up  as  "Dame 
Mince  Pie,"  in  the  venerable  magnificence  of  a  faded  bro- 
cade, long  stomacher,  peaked  hat,  and  high-heeled  shoes. 
The  young  officer  appeared  as  Eobin  Hood,  in  a  sport- 
ing dress  of  Kendal  green,  and  a  foraging  cap  with  a  gold 
tassel. 

The  costume,  to  be  sure,  did  not  bear  testimony  to 
deep  research,  and  there  was  an  evident  eye  to  the  pic- 
turesque, natural  to  a  young  gallant  in  the  presence  of 
his  mistress.  The  fair  Julia  hung  on  his  arm  in  a  pretty 
rustic  dress,  as  "  Maid  Marian."  The  rest  of  the  train 
had  been  metamorphosed  in  various  ways;^  the  girls 
trussed  up  in  the  finery  of  the  ancient  belles  of  the 
Bracebridge  line,  and  the  striplings  bewhiskered  with 
burnt  cork,  and  gravely  clad  in  broad  skirts,  hanging 
sleeves,  and  full-bottomed  wigs,  to  represent  the  charac- 
ter of  Koast  Beef,  Plum  Pudding,  and  other  worthies 

under  contribution  to  furnish  dresses  and  fantastic  disguisings.  1 
strongly  suspect  Master  Simon  to  have  taken  the  idea  of  his  from  Ben 
Jensen's  Masque  of  Christmas. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  327 

celebrated  in  ancient  maskings.  The  whole  was  under 
the  control  of  the  Oxonian,  in  the  appropriate  character 
of  Misrule ;  and  I  observed  that  he  exercised  rather  a 
mischievous  sway  with  his  wand  over  the  smaller  per- 
sonages of  the  pageant. 

The  irruption  of  this  motley  crew,  with  beat  of  drum, 
according  to  ancient  custom,  was  the  consummation  of 
uproar  and  merriment.  Master  Simon  covered  himself 
with  glory  by  the  stateliness  with  which,  as  Ancient 
Christmas,  he  walked  a  minuet  with  the  peerless,  though 
giggling,  Dame  Mince  Pie.  It  was  followed  by  a  dance 
of  all  the  characters,  which  from  its  medley  of  costumes, 
seemed  as  though  the  old  family  portraits  had  skipped 
down  from  their  frames  to  join  in  the  sport.  Different 
centuries  were  figuring  at  cross  hands  and  right  and  left ; 
the  dark  ages  were  cutting  pirouettes  and  rigadoons ;  and 
the  days  of  Queen  Bess  jigging  merrily  down  the  middle, 
through  a  line  of  succeeding  generations. 

The  worthy  squire  contemplated  these  fantastic  sports, 
and  this  resurrection  of  his  old  wardrobe,  with  the  sim- 
ple relish  of  childish  delight.  He  stood  chuckling  and 
rubbing  his  hands,  and  scarcely  hearing  a  word  the  par- 
son said,  notwithstanding  that  the  latter  was  discoursing 
most  authentically  on  the  ancient  and  stately  dance  at 
the  Paon,  or  peacock,  from  which  he  conceived  the  min- 
uet to  be  derived.^    For  my  part,  I  was  in  a  continual 

*  Sir  John  Hawkins,  speaking  of  the  dance  called  the  Pavon,  from 
pavo,  a  peacock,  says,  *'lt  is  a  grave  and  majestic  dance  ;  the  method  of 


328  TEE  SKETCHBOOK. 

excitement  from  the  varied  scenes  of  whim  and  innocent 
gayety  passing  before  me.  It  was  inspiring  to  see  wild- 
eyed  frolic  and  warm-hearted  hospitality  breaking  out 
from  among  the  chills  and  glooms  of  winter,  and  old  age 
throwing  off  his  apathy,  and  catching  once  more  the 
freshness  of  youthful  enjoyment.  I  felt  also  an  interest 
in  the  scene,  from  the  consideration  that  these  fleeting 
customs  were  posting  fast  into  oblivion,  and  that  this  was, 
perhaps,  the  only  family  in  England  in  which  the  whole 
of  them  was  still  punctiliously  observed.  There  was 
a  quaintness,  too,  mingled  with  all  this  revelry,  that  gave 
it  a  peculiar  zest :  it  was  suited  to  the  time  and  place ; 
and  as  the  old  manor-house  almost  reeled  with  mirth  and 
wassail,  it  seemed  echoing  back  the  joviality  of  long  de- 
parted years.  "^ 

But  enough  of  Christmas  and  its  gambols ;  it  is  time 
for  me  to  pause  in  this  garrulity.  Methinks  I  hear  the 
questions  asked  by  my  graver  readers,  "  To  what  pur- 
pose is  all  this — how  is  the  world  to  be  made  wiser  by 


dancing  it  anciently  was  by  gentlemen  dressed  with  caps  and  swords,  by 
those  of  the  long  robe  in  their  gowns,  by  the  peers  in  their  mantles,  and 
by  the  ladies  in  gowns  with  long  trains,  the  motion  whereof,  in  dancing, 
resembled  that  of  a  peacock." — History  of  Uusic. 

*  At  the  time  of  the  first  publication  of  this  paper,  the  picture  of  an 
old-fashioned  Christmas  in  the  country  was  pronounced  by  some  as  out  of 
date.  The  author  had  afterwards  an  opportunity  of  witnessing  almost  all 
the  customs  above  described,  existing  in  unexpected  vigor  in  the  skirts  of 
Derbyshire  and  Yorkshire,  where  he  passed  the  Christmas  holidays.  The 
reader  will  find  some  notice  of  them  in  the  author's  account  of  his  sojourn 
at  Newstead  Abbey. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  329 

this  talk  ?  "  Alas !  is  there  not  wisdom  enough  extant 
for  the  instruction  of  the  world  ?  And  if  not,  are  there 
not  thousands  of  abler  pens  laboring  for  its  improve- 
ment?— It  is  so  much  pleasanter  to  please  than  to  in- 
struct— to  play  the  companion  rather  than  the  preceptor. 
What,  after  all,  is  the  mite  of  wisdom  that  I  could 
throw  into  the  mass  of  knowledge ;  or  how  am  I  sure 
that  my  sagest  deductions  may  be  safe  guides  for  the 
opinions  of  others  ?  But  in  writing  to  amuse,  if  I  fail, 
the  only  evil  is  in  my  own  disappointment.  If,  however, 
I  can  by  any  lucky  chance,  in  these  days  of  evil,  rub  out 
one  wrinkle  from  the  brow  of  care,  or  beguile  the  heavy 
heart  of  one  moment  of  sorrow^ ;  if  I  can  now  and  then 
penetrate  through  the  gathering  film  of  misanthropy, 
prompt  a  benevolent  view  of  human  nature,  and  make 
my  reader  more  in  good  humor  with  his  fellow  beings 
and  himself,  surely,  surely,  I  shall  not  then  have  written 
entirely  in  vain. 


LONDON    ANTIQUES. 

1  do  walk 

Methinks  like  Guido  Vaux,  with  my  dark  lanthom, 

Stealing  to  set  the  town  o'  fire  ;  i'  th'  country 

I  should  be  taken  for  William  o'  the  Wisp, 

Or  Robin  Goodf ellow. 

Fletcher. 

AM  somewliat  of  an  antiquity  hunter,  and  am 
fond  of  exploring  London  in  quest  of  the  relics 
of  old  times.  These  are  principally  to  be  found 
in  the  depths  of  the  city,  swallowed  up  and  almost  lost 
in  a  wilderness  of  brick  and  mortar ;  but  deriving  poeti- 
cal and  romantic  interest  from  the  commonplace  prosaic 
world  around  them.  I  was  struck  with  an  instance  of 
the  kind  in  the  course  of  a  recent  summer  ramble  into 
the  city ;  for  the  city  is  only  to  be  explored  to  advantage 
in  summer  time,  when  free  from  the  smoke  and  fog,  and 
rain  and  mud  of  winter.  I  had  been  buffeting  for  some 
time  against  the  current  of  population  setting  through 
Fleet-street.  The  warm  weather  had  unstrung  my  nerves, 
and  made  me  sensitive  to  every  jar  and  jostle  and  dis- 
cordant sound.  The  flesh  was  weary,  the  spirit  faint, 
and  I  was  getting  out  of  humor  with  the  bustling  busy 
throng  through  which  I  had  to  struggle,  when  in  a  fit  of 

830 


LONDON  ANTIQUES.  331. 

desperation  I  tore  my  way  through  the  crowd,  plunged 
into  a  by  lane,  and  after  passing  through  several  obscure 
nooks  and  angles,  emerged  into  a  quaint  and  quiet  court 
with  a  grassplot  in  the  centre,  overhung  by  elms,  and 
kept  perpetually  fresh  and  green  by  a  fountain  with  its 
sparkling  jet  of  water.  A  student  with  book  in  hand  was 
seated  on  a  stone  bench,  partly  reading,  partly  meditat- 
ing on  the  movements  of  two  or  three  trim  nursery  maids 
with  their  infant  charges. 

I  was  like  an  Arab,  who  had  suddenly  come  upon  an 
oasis  amid  the  panting  sterility  of  the  desert.  By  de- 
grees the  quiet  and  coolness  of  the  place  soothed  my 
nerves  and  refreshed  my  spirit.  I  pursued  my  walk,  and 
came,  hard  by,  to  a  very  ancient  chapel,  with  a  low- 
browed Saxon  portal  of  massive  and  rich  architecture. 
The  interior  was  circular  and  lofty,  and  lighted  from 
above.  Around  were  monumental  tombs  of  ancient  date, 
on  which  were  extended  the  marble  effigies  of  warriors 
in  armor.  Some  had  the  hands  devoutly  crossed  upon 
the  breast;  others  grasped  the  pommel  of  the  sword, 
menacing  hostility  even  in  the  tomb ! — while  the  crossed 
legs  of  several  indicated  soldiers  of  the  Faith  who  had 
been  on  crusades  to  the  Holy  Land. 

I  was,  in  fact,  in  the  chapel  of  the  Knights  Templars, 
strangely  situated  in  the  very  centre  of  sordid  traffic; 
and  I  do  not  know  a  more  impressive  lesson  for  the  man 
of  the  world  than  thus  suddenly  to  turn  aside  from  the 
highway  of  busy  money-seeking  life,  and  sit  down  among 


332  THE  SEETGH'BOOE. 

these  shadowy  sepulchres,  where  all  is  twilight,  dust,  and 
forgetfulness. 

In  a  subsequent  tour  of  observation,  I  encountered 
another  of  these  relics  of  a  "  foregone  world  "  locked  up 
in  the  heart  of  the  city.  I  had  been  wandering  for  some 
time  through  dull  monotonous  streets,  destitute  of  any 
thing  to  strike  the  eye  or  excite  the  imagination,  when  I 
beheld  before  me  a  Gothic  gateway  of  mouldering  anti- 
quity. It  opened  into  a  spacious  quadrangle  forming  the 
court-yard  of  a  stately  Gothic  pile,  the  portal  of  which 
stood  inyitingly  open. 

It  was  apparently  a  public  edifice,  and  as  I  was  anti- 
quity hunting,  I  ventured  in,  though  with  dubious  steps. 
Meeting  no  one  either  to  oppose  or  rebuke  my  intrusion, 
I  continued  on  until  I  found  myself  in  a  great  hall,  with 
a  lofty  arched  roof  and  oaken  gallery,  all  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture. At  one  end  of  the  hall  was  an  enormous  fire- 
place, with  wooden  settles  on  each  side ;  at  the  other  end 
was  a  raised  platform,  or  dais,  the  seat  of  state,  above 
which  was  the  portrait  of  a  man  in  antique  garb,  with  a 
long  robe,  a  ruff,  and  a  venerable  gray  beard. 

The  whole  establishment  had  an  air  of  monastic  quiet 
and  seclusion,  and  what  gave  it  a  mysterious  charm,  was, 
that  I  had  not  met  with  a  human  being  since  I  had  passed 
the  threshold. 

Encouraged  by  this  loneliness,  I  seated  myself  in  a 
recess  of  a  large  bow  window,  which  admitted  a  broad 
flood  of  yellow  sunshine,  checkered  here  and  there  bj' 


LONDON  ANTIQUES.  333 

tints  from  panes  of  colored  glass ;  while  an  open  case- 
ment let  in  the  soft  summer  air.  Here,  leaning  my  head 
on  my  hand,  and  my  arm  on  an  old  oaken  table,  I  in- 
dulged in  a  sort  of  reverie  about  what  might  have  been 
the  ancient  uses  of  this  edifice.  It  had  evidently  been  of 
monastic  origin;  perhaps  one  of  those  collegiate  estab- 
lishments built  of  yore  for  the  promotion  of  learning, 
where  the  patient  monk,  in  the  ample  solitude  of  the 
cloister,  added  page  to  page  and  volume  to  volume,  emu- 
lating in  the  productions  of  his  brain  the  magnitude  of 
the  pile  he  inhabited. 

As  I  was  seated  in  this  musing  mood,  a  small  panelled 
door  in  an  arch  at  the  upper  end  of  the  hall  was  opened, 
and  a  number  of  gray-headed  old  men,  clad  in  long  black 
cloaks,  came  forth  one  by  one ;  proceeding  in  that  man- 
ner through  the  hall,  without  uttering  a  word,  each  turn- 
ing a  pale  face  on  me  as  he  passed,  and  disappearing 
through  a  door  at  the  lower  end. 

I  was  singularly  struck  with  their  appearance ;  their 
black  cloaks  and  antiquated  air  comported  with  the  style 
of  this  most  venerable  and  mysterious  pile.  It  was  as  if 
the  ghosts  of  the  departed  years,  about  which  I  had  been 
musing,  were  passing  in  review  before  me.  Pleasing  my- 
self with  such  fancies,  I  set  out,  in  the  spirit  of  romance, 
to  explore  what  I  pictured  to  myself  a  realm  of  shadows, 
existing  in  the  very  centre  of  substantial  realities. 

My  ramble  led  me  through  a  labyrinth  of  interior 
courts,  and  corridors,  and  dilapidated  cloisters,  for  the 


334  THE  SKETCHBOOK 

main  edifice  had.  many  additions  and  dependencies,  built 
at  various  times  and  in  various  styles  ;  in  one  open  space 
a  number  of  boys,  who  evidently  belonged  to  the  estab- 
lishment, were  at  their  sports ;  but  everywhere  I  observed 
those  mysterious  old  gray  men  in  black  mantles,  some- 
times sauntering  alone,  sometimes  conversing  in  groups 
they  appeared  to  be  the  pervading  genii  of  the  place.  ] 
now  called  to  mind  what  I  had  read  of  certain  colleges  in 
old  times,  where  judicial  astrology,  geomancy,  necroman- 
cy, and  other  forbidden  and  magical  sciences  were  taught. 
Was  this  an  establishment  of  the  kind,  and  were  these 
black-cloaked  old  men  really  professors  of  the  black  art  ? 

These  surmises  were  passing  through  my  mind  as  mj 
eye  glanced  into  a  chamber,  hung  round  with  all  kinds  oj 
strange  and  uncouth  objects  ;  implements  of  savage  war- 
fare ;  strange  idols  and  stuffed  alligators ;  bottled  ser- 
pents and  monsters  decorated  the  mantelpiece  ;  while 
on  the  high  tester  of  an  old-fashioned  bedstead  grinned 
a  human  skull,  flanked  on  each  side  by  a  dried  cat. 

I  approached  to  regard  more  narrowly  this  mystic 
chamber,  which  seemed  a  fitting  laboratory  for  a  necro- 
mancer, when  I  was  startled  at  beholding  a  human  coun- 
tenance staring  at  me  from  a  dusky  corner.  It  was  that 
of  a  small,  shrivelled  old  man,  with  thin  cheeks,  bright 
eyes,  and  gray  wiry  projecting  eyebrows.  I  at  first 
doubted  whether  it  were  not  a  mummy  curiously  pre- 
served, but  it  moved,  and  I  saw  that  it  was  alive.  It 
was  another  of  those  black-cloaked  old  men,  and,  as  I 


LONDON  ANTIQUES.  335 

regarded  his  quaint  physiognomy,  his  obsolete  garb, 
and  the  hideous  and  sinister  objects  by  which  he  was 
surrounded,  I  began  to  persuade  myself  that  I  had 
come  upon  the  arch  mago,  who  ruled  over  this  magical 
fraternity. 

Seeing  me  pausing  before  the  door,  he  rose  and  invited 
me  to  enter.  I  obeyed,  with  singular  hardihood,  for  how 
did  I  know  whether  a  wave  of  his  wand  might  not  meta- 
morphose me  into  some  strange  monster,  or  conjure  me 
into  one  of  the  bottles  on  his  mantelpiece  ?  He  proved, 
however,  to  be  any  thing  but  a  conjurer,  and  his  simple 
garrulity  soon  dispelled  all  the  magic  and  mystery  with 
which  I  had  enveloped  this  antiquated  pile  and  its  no 
less  antiquated  inhabitants. 

It  appeared  that  I  had  made  my  way  into  the  centre  of 
an  ancient  asylum  for  superannuated  tradesmen  and  de- 
cayed householders,  with  which  was  connected  a  school 
for  a  limited  number  of  boys.  It  was  founded  upwards 
of  two  centuries  since  on  an  old  monastic  establishment, 
and  retained  somewhat  of  the  conventual  air  and  charac- 
ter. The  shadowy  line  of  old  men  in  black  mantles  who 
had  passed  before  me  in  the  hall,  and  whom  I  had  ele- 
vated into  magi,  turned  out  to  be  the  pensioners  return- 
ing from  morning  service  in  the  chapel. 

John  Hallum,  the  little  collector  of  curiosities,  whom  I 
had  made  the  arch  magician,  had  been  for  six  years  a 
resident  of  the  place,  and  had  decorated  this  final  nest- 
ling-place of  his  old  age  with  relics  and  rarities  picked  up 


336  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

in  the  course  of  his  life.  According  to  his  own  account 
he  had  been  somewhat  of  a  traveller ;  having  been  once 
in  France,  and  very  near  making  a  visit  to  Holland.  He 
regretted  not  having  visited  the  latter  country,  "  as  then 
he  might  have  said  he  had  been  there." — He  was  evi- 
dently a  traveller  of  the  simplest  kind. 

He  was  aristocratical  too  in  his  notions ;  keeping  aloof, 
as  I  found,  from  the  ordinary  run  of  pensioners.  His 
chief  associates  were  a  blind  man  who  spoke  Latin  and 
Greek,  of  both  which  languages  Hallum  was  profoundly 
ignorant;  and  a  broken-down  gentleman  who  had  run 
through  a  fortune  of  forty  thousand  pounds,  left  him  by 
his  father,  and  ten  thousand  pounds,  the  marriage  por- 
tion of  his  wife.  Little  Hallum  seemed  to  consider  it  an 
indubitable  sign  of  gentle  blood  as  well  as  of  lofty  spirit 
to  be  able  to  squander  such  enormous  sums. 

P.  S.  The  picturesque  remnant  of  old  times  into 
which  I  have  thus  beguiled  the  reader  is  what  is  called 
the  Charter  House,  originally  the  Chartreuse.  It  was 
founded  in  1611,  on  the  remains  of  an  ancient  convent, 
by  Sir  Thomas  Sutton,  being  one  of  those  noble  chari- 
ties set  on  foot  by  individual  munificence,  and  kept 
up  with  the  quaintness  and  sanctity  of  ancient  times 
amidst  the  modern  changes  and  innovations  of  London. 
Here  eighty  broken-down  men,  who  have  seen  better 
days,  are  provided,  in  their  old  age,  with  food,  clothing, 
fuel,  and  a  yearly  allowance  for  private  expenses.     They 


LONDON  ANTIQUES.  337 

dine  togetlier  as  did  the  monks  of  old,  in  the  hall  which 
had  been  the  refectory  of  the  original  convent.  Attached 
to  the  establishment  is  a  school  for  forty-four  boys. 

Stow,  whose  work  I  have  consulted  on  the  subject, 
speaking  of  the  obligations  of  the  gray-headed  pension- 
ers, says,  "  They  are  not  to  intermeddle  with  any  busi- 
ness touching  the  affairs  of  the  hospital,  but  to  attend 
only  to  the  service  of  God,  and  take  thankfully  what  is 
provided  for  them,  without  muttering,  murmuring,  or 
grudging.  None  to  wear  weapon,  long  hair,  colored 
boots,  spurs  or  colored  shoes,  feathers  in  their  hats,  or 
any  ruffian-like  or  unseemly  apparel,  but  such  as  be- 
comes hospital  men  to  wear."  "And  in  truth,"  adds 
Stow,  "  happy  are  they  that  are  so  taken  from  the  cares 
and  sorrows  of  the  world,  and  fixed  in  so  good  a  place  as 
these  old  men  are ;  having  nothing  to  care  for,  but  the 
good  of  their  souls,  to  serve  God  and  to  live  in  brotherly 
love." 


For  the  amusement  of  such  as  have  been  interested  by 
the  preceding  sketch,  taken  down  from  my  own  observa- 
tion, and  who  may  wish  to  know  a  little  more  about  the 
mysteries  of  London,  I  subjoin  a  modicum  of  local  his- 
tory, put  into  my  hands  by  an  odd-looking  old  gentleman 
in  a  small  brown  wig  and  a  snuff-colored  coat,  with  whom 
I  became  acquainted  shortly  after  my  visit  to  the  Charter 
House.  I  confess  I  was  a  little  dubious  at  first,  whether 
it  was  not  one  of  those  apocryphal  tales  often  passed  off 
22 


338  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

upon  inquiring  travellers  like  myself;  and  which  have 
brought  our  general  character  for  veracity  into  such  un- 
merited reproach.  On  making  proper  inquiries,  how- 
ever, I  have  received  the  most  satisfactory  assurances  of 
the  author's  probity ;  and,  indeed,  have  been  told  that  he 
is  actually  engaged  in  a  full  and  particular  account  of  the 
very  interesting  region  in  which  he  resides ;  of  which  the 
following  may  be  considered  merely  as  a  foretaste. 


LITTLE    BEITAIN. 

What  I  write  Is  most  true  *  *  *  *  I  have  a  whole  booke  of  cases  lying  by 
me  whlcli  if  I  should  sette  foorth,  some  grave  auntients  (within  the  hearing  of 
Bow  bell)  would  be  out  of  charity  with  me. 

Nashe. 


N  the  centre  of  the  great  city  of  London  lies  a 
small  neighborhood,  consisting  of  a  cluster  of 
narrow  streets  and  courts,  of  very  venerable 
and  debilitated  houses,  which  goes  by  the  name  of  Lit- 
tle Bbitain.  Christ  Church  School  and  St.  Bartholo- 
mew's Hospital  bound  it  on  the  west;  Smithfield  and 
Long  Lane  on  the  north  ;  Aldersgate  Street,  like  an  arm 
of  the  sea,  divides  it  from  the  eastern  part  of  the  city ; 
whilst  the  yawning  gulf  of  Bull-and-Mouth  Street  sepa- 
rates it  from  Butcher  Lane,  and  the  regions  of  Newgate. 
Over  this  little  territory,  thus  bounded  and  designated, 
the  great  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  swelling  above  the  interven- 
ing houses  of  Paternoster  Eow,  Amen  Corner,  and  Ave  Ma- 
ria Lane,  looks  down  with  an  air  of  motherly  protection. 

This  quarter  derives  its  appellation  from  having  been, 
in  ancient  times,  the  residence  of  the  Dukes  of  Brittany. 
As  London  increased,  however,  rank  and  fashion  rolled 
off  to  the  west,  and  trade  creeping  on  at  their  heels,  took 
possession  of  their  deserted  abodes.     For  some  time  Lit- 


340  THE  SKETGH-BOOK 

tie  Britain  became  the  great  mart  of  learning,  and  was 
peopled  by  the  busy  and  prolific  race  of  booksellers; 
these  also  gradually  deserted  it,  and,  emigrating  beyond 
the  great  strait  of  Newgate  Street,  settled  down  in  Pater- 
noster Kow  and  St.  Paul's  Church- Yard,  where  they  con- 
tinue to  increase  and  multiply  even  at  the  present  day. 

But  though  thus  fallen  into  decline,  Little  Britain  still 
bears  traces  of  its  former  splendor.  There  are  several 
houses  ready  to  tumble  down,  the  fronts  of  which  are 
magnificently  enriched  with  old  oaken  carvings  of  hide- 
ous faces,  unknown  birds,  beasts,  and  fishes  :  and  fruits 
and  flowers  which  it  would  perplex  a  naturalist  to  clas- 
sify. There  are  also,  in  Aldersgate  Street,  certain  remains 
of  what  were  once  spacious  and  lordly  family  mansions, 
but  which  have  in  latter  days  been  subdivided  into  sev- 
eral tenements.  Here  may  often  be  found  the  family  of  a 
petty  tradesman,  with  its  trumpery  furniture,  burrowing 
among  the  relics  of  antiquated  finery,  in  great  rambling 
time-stained  apartments,  with  fretted  ceilings,  gilded 
cornices,  and  enormous  marble  fireplaces.  The  lanes  and 
courts  also  contain  many  smaller  houses,  not  on  so  grand 
a  scale,  but,  like  your  small  ancient  gentry,  sturdily 
maintaining  their  claims  to  equal  antiquity.  These  have 
their  gable  ends  to  the  street ;  great  bow  windows,  with 
diamond  panes  set  in  lead,  grotesque  carvings,  and  low 
arched  door-ways.* 

*  It  is  evident  that  the  author  of  this  interesting  communication  has 
included,  in  his  general  title  of  Little  Britain,  many  of  those  little  lanes 
and  courts  that  belong  immediately  to  Cloth  Fair. 


LITTLE  BBITAUr.  34J[ 

In  this  most  venerable  and  sheltered  little  nest  have 
J  passed  several  quiet  years  of  existence,  comfortably 
lodged  in  the  second  floor  of  one  of  the  smallest  but  old- 
est edifices.  My  sitting-room  is  an  old  wainscoted  cham- 
ber, with  small  panels,  and  set  off  with  a  miscellaneous 
array  of  furniture.  I  have  a  particular  respect  for  three 
or  four  high-backed  claw-footed  chairs,  covered  with  tar- 
nished brocade,  which  bear  the  marks  of  having  seen  bet- 
ter days,  and  have  doubtless  figured  in  some  of  the  old 
palaces  of  Little  Britain.  They  seem  to  me  to  keep  to- 
gether, and  to  look  down  with  sovereign  contempt  upon 
their  leathern-bottomed  neighbors;  as  I  have  seen  de- 
cayed gentry  carry  a  high  head  among  the  plebeian  so- 
ciety with  which  they  were  reduced  to  associate.  The 
whole  front  of  my  sitting-room  is  taken  up  with  a  bow 
window ;  on  the  panes  of  which  are  recorded  the  names 
of  previous  occupants  for  many  generations,  mingled 
with  scraps  of  very  indifferent  gentleman-like  poetry, 
written  in  characters  which  I  can  scarcely  decipher,  and 
which  extol  the  charms  of  many  a  beauty  of  Little  Brit- 
ain, who  has  long,  long  since  bloomed,  faded,  and  passed 
away.  As  I  am  an  idle  personage,  with  no  apparent  occu- 
pation, and  pay  my  bill  regularly  every  week,  I  am  looked 
upon  as  the  only  independent  gentleman  of  the  neighbor- 
hood ;  and,  being  curious  to  learn  the  internal  state  of  a 
community  so  apparently  shut  up  within  itself,  I  have 
managed  to  work  my  way  into  all  the  concerns  and  se- 
crets of  the  place. 


842  TEE  8KETGEB00K. 

Little  Britain  may  truly  be  called  the  heart's  core  of 
the  city ;  the  strong-hold  of  true  John  BuUism.  It  is  a 
fragment  of  London  as  it  was  in  its  better  days,  with  its 
antiquated  folks  and  fashions.  Here  flourish  in  great 
preservation  many  of  the  holiday  games  and  customs 
of  yore.  The  inhabitants  most  religiously  eat  pancakes 
on  Shrove  Tuesday,  hot-cross-buns  on  Good  Friday,  and 
roast  goose  at  Michaelmas;  they  send  love-letters  on 
Valentine's  Day,  burn  the  pope  on  the  fifth  of  November, 
and  kiss  all  the  girls  under  the  mistletoe  at  Christmas. 
Koast  beef  and  plum-pudding  are  also  held  in  super- 
stitious veneration,  and  port  and  sherry  maintain  their 
grounds  as  the  only  true  English  wines ;  all  others  be- 
ing considered  vile  outlandish  beverages. 

Little  Britain  has  its  long  catalogue  of  city  wonders, 
which  its  inhabitants  consider  the  wonders  of  the  world ; 
such  as  the  great  bell  of  St.  Paul's,  which  sours  all  the 
beer  when  it  tolls ;  the  figures  that  strike  the  hours  at 
St.  Dunstan's  clock;  the  Monument;  the  lions  in  the 
Tower :  and  the  wooden  giants  in  Guildhall.  They  still 
believe  in  dreams  and  fortune-telling,  and  an  old  woman 
that  lives  in  BuU-and-Mouth  Street  makes  a  tolerable 
subsistence  by  detecting  stolen  goods,  and  promising  the 
girls  good  husbands.  They  are  apt  to  be  rendered  un- 
comfortable by  comets  and  eclipses ;  and  if  a  dog  howls 
dolefully  at  night,  it  is  looked  upon  as  a  sure  sign  of  a 
death  in  the  place.  There  are  even  many  ghost  stories 
current,  particularly  concerning  the  old  mansion-houses ; 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  343 

in  several  of  which  it  is  said  strange  sights  are  some- 
times seen.  Lords  and  ladies,  the  former  in  full-bot- 
tomed wigs,  hanging  sleeves,  and  swords,  the  latter  in 
lappets,  stays,  hoops,  and  brocade,  have  been  seen  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  great  waste  chambers,  on  moonlight 
nights ;  and  are  supposed  to  be  the  shades  of  the  ancient 
proprietors  in  their  court-dresses. 

Little  Britain  has  likewise  its  sages  and  great  men. 
One  of  the  most  important  of  the  former  is  a  tall,  dry  old 
gentleman,  of  the  name  of  Skryme,  who  keeps  a  small 
apothecary's  shop.  He  has  a  cadaverous  countenance, 
full  of  cavities  and  projections;  with  a  brown  circle 
round  each  eye,  like  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles.  He  is 
much  thought  of  by  the  old  women,  who  consider  him  as 
a  kind  of  conjurer,  because  he  has  two  or  three  stuffed 
alligators  hanging  up  in  his  shop,  and  several  snakes  in 
bottles.  He  is  a  great  reader  of  almanacs  and  news- 
papers, and  is  much  given  to  pore  over  alarming  ac- 
counts of  plots,  conspiracies,  fires,  earthquakes,  and  vol- 
canic eruptions;  which  last  phenomena  he  considers  as 
signs  of  the  times.  He  has  always  some  dismal  tale  of 
the  kind  to  deal  out  to  his  customers,  with  their  doses ; 
and  thus  at  the  same  time  puts  both  soul  and  body  into 
an  uproar.  He  is  a  great  believer  in  omens  and  predic- 
tions ;  and  has  the  prophecies  of  Kobert  Nixon  and 
Mother  Shipton  by  heart.  No  man  can  make  so  much 
out  of  an  eclipse,  or  even  an  unusually  dark  day ;  and  he 
shook  the  tail  of  the  last  comet  over  the  heads  of  his 


344  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

customers  and  disciples  until  they  were  nearly  frightened 
out  of  their  wits.  He  has  lately  got  hold  of  a  popular 
legend  or  prophecy,  on  which  he  has  been  unusually 
eloquent.  There  has  been  a  saying  current  among  the 
ancient  sibyls,  who  treasure  up  these  things,  that  when 
the  grasshopper  on  the  top  of  the  Exchange  shook 
hands  with  the  dragon  on  the  top  of  Bow  Church  stee- 
ple, fearful  events  would  take  place.  This  strange  con- 
junction, it  seems,  has  as  strangely  come  to  pass.  The 
same  architect  has  been  engaged  lately  on  the  repairs 
of  the  cupola  of  the  Exchange,  and  the  steeple  of  Bow 
Church ;  and,  fearful  to  relate,  the  dragon  and  the  grass- 
hopper actually  lie,  cheek  by  jole,  in  the  yard  of  his  work- 
shop. 

"  Others,"  as  Mr.  Skryme  is  accustomed  to  say,  "  may 
go  star-gazing,  and  look  for  conjunctions  in  the  heavens, 
but  here  is  a  conjunction  on  the  earth,  near  at  home, 
and  under  our  own  eyes,  which  surpasses  all  the  signs 
and  calculations  of  astrologers."  Since  these  portentous 
weather-cocks  have  thus  laid  their  heads  together,  won- 
derful events  had  already  occurred.  The  good  old  king, 
notwithstanding  that  he  had  lived  eighty-two  years,  had 
all  at  once  given  up  the  ghost ;  another  king  had  mounted 
the  throne  ;  a  royal  duke  had  died  suddenly — another,  in 
France,  had  been  murdered;  there  had  been  radical 
meetings  in  all  parts  of  the  kingdom ;  the  bloody  scenes 
at  Manchester;  the  great  plot  in  Cato  Street; — and, 
above  all,   the   Queen  had  returned  to  England!     All 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  345 

these  sinister  events  are  recounted  by  Mr.  Skryme,  witli 
a  mysterious  look,  and  a  dismal  shake  of  the  head ;  and 
being  taken  with  his  drugs,  and  associated  in  the  minds  of 
his  auditors  with  stuffed  sea-monsters,  bottled  serpents, 
and  his  own  visage,  which  is  a  title-page  of  tribulation, 
they  have  spread  great  gloom  through  the  minds  of  the 
people  of  Little  Britain.  They  shake  their  heads  when- 
ever they  go  by  Bow  Church,  and  observe,  that  they 
never  expected  any  good  to  come  of  taking  down  that 
steeple,  which  in  old  times  told  nothing  but  glad  tid- 
ings, as  the  history  of  Whittington  and  his  Cat  bears 
witness. 

The  rival  oracle  of  Little  Britain  is  a  substantial 
cheese-monger,  who  lives  in  a  fragment  of  one  of  the  old 
family  mansions,  and  is  as  magnificently  lodged  as  a 
round-bellied  mite  in  the  midst  of  one  of  his  own  Chesh- 
ires.  Indeed  he  is  a  man  of  no  little  standing  and  im- 
portance ;  and  his  renown  extends  through  Huggin  Lane, 
and  Lad  Lane,  and  even  unto  Aldermanbury.  His  opin- 
ion is  very  much  taken  in  affairs  of  state,  having  read  the 
Sunday  papers  for  the  last  half  century,  together  with 
the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  Eapin's  History  of  England, 
and  the  Naval  Chronicle.  His  head  is  stored  with  inval- 
uable maxims  which  have  borne  the  test  of  time  and  use 
for  centuries.  It  is  his  firm  opinion  that  *'it  is  a  moral 
impossible,"  so  long  as  England  is  true  to  herself,  that 
any  thing  can  shake  her :  and  he  has  much  to  say  on  the 
subject  of  the  national  debt ;  which,  somehow  or  other, 


346  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

he  proves  to  be  a  great  national  bulwark  and  blessing. 
He  passed  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  the  purlieus  of 
Little  Britain,  until  of  late  years,  when,  having  become 
rich,  and  grown  into  the  dignity  of  a  Sunday  cane,  he 
begins  to  take  his  pleasure  and  see  the  world.  He  has 
therefore  made  several  excursions  to  Hampstead,  High- 
gate,  and  other  neighboring  towns,  where  he  has  passed 
whole  afternoons  in  looking  back  upon  the  metropolis 
through  a  telescope,  and  endeavoring  to  descry  the  stee- 
ple of  St.  Bartholomew's.  Not  a  stage-coachman  of  BuU- 
and-Mouth  Street  but  touches  his  hat  as  he  passes ;  and 
he  is  considered  quite  a  patron  at  the  coach-office  of  the 
Goose  and  Gridiron,  St.  Paul's  Church-yard.  His  family 
have  been  very  urgent  for  him  to  make  an  expedition  to 
Margate,  but  he  has  great  doubts  of  those  new  gimcracks, 
the  steamboats,  and  indeed  thinks  himself  too  advanced 
in  life  to  undertake  sea-voyages. 

Little  Britain  has  occasionally  its  factions  and  divi- 
sions, and  party  spirit  ran  very  high  at  one  time  in  con- 
sequence of  two  rival  "  Burial  Societies  "  being  set  up  in 
the  place.  One  held  its  meeting  at  the  Swan  and  Horse 
Shoe,  and  was  patronized  by  the  cheesemonger ;  the 
other  at  the  Cock  and  Crown,  under  the  auspices  of  the 
apothecary :  it  is  needless  to  say  that  the  latter  was  the 
most  flourishing.  I  have  passed  an  evening  or  two  at 
each,  and  have  acquired  much  valuable  information,  as 
to  the  best  mode  of  being  buried,  the  comparative  merits 
of  church-yards,  together  with  divers  hints  on  the  sub- 


LITTLE  BBIfAIN.  347 

ject  of  patent-iron  coffins.  I  have  heard  the  question 
discussed  in  all  its  bearings  as  to  the  legality  of  prohib- 
iting the  latter  on  account  of  their  durability.  The  feuds 
occasioned  by  these  societies  have  happily  died  of  late ; 
but  they  were  for  a  long  time  prevailing  themes  of  con- 
troversy, the  people  of  Little  Britain  being  extremely 
solicitous  of  funereal  honors  and  of  lying  comfortably  in 
their  graves. 

Besides  these  two  funeral  societies  there  is  a  third  of 
quite  a  different  cast,  which  tends  to  throw  the  sunshine 
of  good-humor  over  the  whole  neighborhood.  It  meets 
once  a  week  at  a  little  old-fashioned  house,  kept  by  a 
jolly  publican  of  the  name  of  Wagstaff,  and  bearing  for 
insignia  a  resplendent  half-moon,  with  a  most  seductive 
bunch  of  grapes.  The  old  edifice  is  covered  with  inscrip- 
tions to  catch  the  eye  of  the  thirsty  wayfarer ;  such  as 
"Truman,  Hanbury,  and  Co.'s  Entire,"  "Wine,  Bum,  and 
Brandy  Vaults,"  "  Old  Tom,  Bum  and  Compounds,  etc." 
This  indeed  has  been  a  temple  of  Bacchus  and  Momus 
from  time  immemorial.  It  has  always  been  in  the  family 
of  the  Wagstaffs,  so  that  its  history  is  tolerably  pre- 
served by  the  present  landlord.  It  was  much  frequented 
by  the  gallants  and  cavalieros  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth, 
and  was  looked  into  now  and  then  by  the  wits  of  Charles 
the  Second's  day.  But  what  Wagstaff  principally  prides 
himself  upon  is,  that  Henry  the  Eighth,  in  one  of  his 
nocturnal  rambles,  broke  the  head  of  one  of  his  ancestors 
with  his  famous  walking-staff.     This  however  is  consid- 


348  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

ered  as  ratlier  a  dubious  and  vainglorious  boast  of  the 
landlord. 

The  club  which  now  holds  its  weekly  sessions  here 
goes  by  the  name  of  "  The  Eoaring  Lads  of  Little  Brit- 
ain." They  abound  in  old  catches,  glees,  and  choice 
stories,  that  are  traditional  in  the  place,  and  not  to  be 
met  with  in  any  other  part  of  the  metropolis.  There  is 
a  mad-cap  undertaker  who  is  inimitable  at  a  merry  song ; 
but  the  life  of  the  club,  and  indeed  the  prime  wit  of  Lit- 
tle Britain,  is  bully  "Wagstaff  himself.  His  ancestors 
were  all  wags  before  him,  and  he  has  inherited  with  the 
inn  a  large  stock  of  songs  and  jokes,  which  go  with  it 
from  generation  to  generation  as  heir-looms.  He  is  a 
dapper  little  fellow,  with  bandy  legs  and  pot  belly,  a  red 
face,  with  a  moist  merry  eye,  and  a  little  shock  of  gray 
hair  behind.  At  the  opening  of  every  club  night  he  is 
called  in  to  sing  his  "  Confession  of  Faith,"  which  is  the 
famous  old  drinking  trowl  from  Gammer  Gurton's  Nee- 
dle. He  sings  it,  to  be  sure,  with  many  variations,  as  he 
received  it  from  his  father's  lips ;  for  it  has  been  a  stand- 
ing favorite  at  the  Half-Moon  and  Bunch  of  Grapes  ever 
since  it  was  written :  nay,  he  affirms  that  his  predeces- 
sors have  often  had  the  honor  of  singing  it  before  the 
nobility  and  gentry  at  Christmas  mummeries,  when  Lit- 
tle Britain  was  in  all  its  glory.* 

*  As  mine  host  of  the  Half-Moon's  Confession  of  Faith  may  not  be 
lamiliar  to  the  majority  of  readers,  and  as  it  is  a  specimen  of  the  current 
songs  of  Little  Britain,  I  subjoin  it  in  its  original  orthography.    I  would 


LITTLE  BRITAIN. 


3^9 


It  would  do  one's  heart  good  to  hear,  on  a  club  night, 
the  shouts  of  merriment,  the  snatches  of  song,  and  now 
and  then  the  choral  bursts  of  half  a '  dozen  discordant 

observe,  that  the  whole  club  always  join  in  the  chorus  with  a  fearful 
thumping  on  the  table  and  clattering  of  pewter  pots. 

I  cannot  eate  but  lytle  meate, 

My  stomacke  is  not  good, 
But  sure  I  thinke  that  I  can  drinke 

With  him  that  weares  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  nothing  am  a  colde, 
I  stuff  my  skyn  so  full  within, 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Chorus.    Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare, 

Booth  foote  and  hand  go  colde. 
But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  ynougho 

Whether  it  be  new  or  olde. 


Chorus. 


I  have  no  rost,  but  a  nut  brawne  toste. 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  f  yre  ; 
A  little  breade  shall  do  me  steade, 

Much  breade  I  not  desyre. 
No  frost  nor  snow,  nor  winde,  I  trowe, 

Can  hurte  mee,  if  I  wolde, 
I  am  so  wrapt  and  throwly  lapt 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 


And  Tyb  my  wife,  that,  as  her  lyfe, 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seeke, 
Full  oft  drynkes  shee,  tyll  ye  may  see, 

The  teares  run  downe  her  cheeke. 
Then  doth  she  trowle  to  me  the  bowle, 

Even  as  a  mault-worme  sholde, 
And  sayth,  sweete  harte,  I  tooke  my  part© 

Of  this  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Chorus.    Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 


350  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

voices,  whicli  issue  from  this  jovial  mansion.  At  such 
times  the  street  is  lined  with  listeners,  who  enjoy  a  de- 
light equal  to  that  of  gazing  into  a  confectioner's  win- 
dow, or  snuffing  up  the  steams  of  a  cook-shop. 

There  are  two  annual  events  which  produce  great  stir 
and  sensation  in  Little  Britain ;  these  are  St.  Bartholo- 
mew's fair,  and  the  Lord  Mayor's  day.  During  the  time 
of  the  fair,  which  is  held  in  the  adjoining  regions  of 
Smithfield,  there  is  nothing  going  on  but  gossiping  and 
gadding  about.  The  late  quiet  streets  of  Little  Britain 
are  overrun  with  an  irruption  of  strange  figures  and  faces ; 
every  tavern  is  a  scene  of  rout  and  revel.  The  fiddle  and 
the  song  are  heard  from  the  tap-room,  morning,  noon, 
and  night ;  and  at  each  window  may  be  seen  some  group 
of  boon  companions,  with  half-shut  eyes,  hats  on  one  side, 
pipe  in  mouth,  and  tankard  in  hand,  fondling,  and  pros- 
ing, and  singing  maudlin  songs  over  their  liquor.  Even 
the  sober  decorum  of  private  families,  which  I  must  say 
is  rigidly  kept  up  at  other  times  among  my  neighbors,  is 
no  proof  against  this  Saturnalia.  There  is  no  such  thing 
as  keeping  maid-servants  within  doors.     Their  brains  are 

Now  let  them  drynke,  tyll  they  nod  and  winke, 

Even  as  goode  fellowes  sholde  doe, 
They  shall  not  mysse  to  have  the  blisse, 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to  ; 
And  all  poore  soules  that  have  scowred  bowleg, 

Or  have  them  lustily  trolde, 
God  save  the  ly  ves  of  them  and  their  wives, 

Whether  they  be  yonge  or  olde. 
(Jhorvs.     Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  351 

absolutely  set  madding  with  Puncli  and  the  Puppet  Show ; 
the  Flying  Horses ;  Signior  Polito  ;  the  Fire-Eater  ;  the 
celebrated  Mr.  Paap  ;  and  the  Irish  Giant.  The  children 
too  lavish  all  their  holiday  money  in  toys  and  gilt  gin- 
gerbread, and  fill  the  house  with  the  Lilliputian  din  of 
drums,  trumpets,  and  penny  whistles. 

But  the  Lord  Mayor's  day  is  the  great  anniversary. 
The  Lord  Mayor  is  looked  up  to  by  the  inhabitants  of 
Little  Britain  as  the  greatest  potentate  upon  earth ;  his 
gilt  coach  with  six  horses  as  the  summit  of  human 
splendor;  and  his  procession,  with  all  the  Sheriffs  and 
Aldermen  in  his  train,  as  the  grandest  of  earthly  pag- 
eants. How  they  exult  in  the  idea,  that  the  King  him- 
self dare  not  enter  the  city,  without  first  knocking  at 
the  gate  of  Temple  Bar^  and  asking  permission  of  the 
Lord  Mayor :  for  if  he  did,  heaven  and  earth !  there  is  no 
knowing  what  might  be  the  consequence.  The  man  in 
armor  who  rides  before  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  is  the  city 
champion,  has  orders  to  cut  down  every  body  that  offends 
against  the  dignity  of  the  city ;  and  then  there  is  the  lit- 
tle man  with  a  velvet  porringer  on  his  head,  who  sits  at 
the  window  of  the  state  coach,  and  holds  the  city  sword, 
as  long  as  a  pike-staff — Odd's  blood !  If  he  once  draws 
that  sword,  Majesty  itself  is  not  safe ! 

Under  the  protection  of  this  mighty  potentate,  there- 
fore, the  good  people  of  Little  Britain  sleep  in  peace. 
Temple  Bar  is  an  effectual  barrier  against  all  interior 
foes ;  and  as  to  foreign  invasion,  the  Lord  Mayor  has  but 


352  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

to  throw  himself  into  the  Tower,  call  in  the  train  bands, 
and  put  the  standing  army  of  Beef-eaters  under  arms, 
and  he  may  bid  defiance  to  the  world ! 

Thus  wrapped  up  in  its  own  concerns,  its  own  habits, 
and  its  own  opinions.  Little  Britain  has  long  flourished 
as  a  sound  heart  to  this  great  fungous  metropolis.  I 
have  pleased  myself  with  considering  it  as  a  chosen  spot, 
where  the  principles  of  sturdy  John  BuUism  were  gar- 
nered up,  like  seed  corn,  to  renew  the  national  character, 
when  it  had  run  to  waste  and  degeneracy.  I  have  re- 
joiced also  in  the  general  spirit  of  harmony  that  pre- 
vailed throughout  it;  for  though  there  might  now  and 
then  be  a  few  clashes  of  opinion  between  the  adherents 
of  the  cheesemonger  and  the  apothecary,  and  an  occa- 
sional feud  between  the  burial  societies,  yet  these  were 
but  transient  clouds,  and  soon  passed  away.  The  neigh- 
bors met  with  good-will,  parted  with  a  shake  of  the 
hand,  and  never  abused  each  other  except  behind  their 
backs. 

I  could  give  rare  descriptions  of  snug  junketing  parties 
at  which  I  have  been  present ;  where  we  played  at  All- 
Fours,  Pope-Joan,  Tom-come-tickle-me,  and  other  choice 
old  games ;  and  where  we  sometimes  had  a  good  old  Eng- 
lish country  dance  to  the  tune  of  Sir  Koger  de  Coverley. 
Once  a  year  also  the  neighbors  would  gather  together, 
and  go  on  a  gipsy  party  to  Epping  Forest.  It  would 
have  done  any  man's  heart  good  to  see  the  merriment 
that  took  place  here  as  we  banqueted  on  the  grass  under 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  353 

the  trees.  How  we  made  the  woods  ring  with  bursts  of 
laughter  at  the  songs  of  little  Wagstaff  and  the  merry  un- 
dertaker !  After  dinner,  too,  tLo  young  folks  would  play 
at  blind-man's-buff  and  hide-and-seek ;  and  it  was  amus- 
ing to  see  them  tangled  among  the  briers,  and  to  hear  a 
fine  romping  girl  now  and  then  squeak  from  among  the 
bushes.  The  elder  folks  would  gather  round  the  cheese- 
monger and  the  apothecary,  to  hear  them  talk  politics ; 
for  they  generally  brought  out  a  newspaper  in  their  pock- 
ets, to  pass  away  time  in  the  country.  They  would  now 
and  then,  to  be  sure,  get  a  little  warm  in  argument ;  but 
their  disputes  were  always  adjusted  by  reference  to  a 
worthy  old  umbrella  maker  in  a  double  chin,  who,  never 
exactly  comprehending  the  subject,  managed  somehow  or 
other  to  decide  in  favor  of  both  parties. 

All  empires,  however,  says  some  philosopher  or  histo- 
rian, are  doomed  to  changes  and  revolutions.  Luxury 
and  innovation  creep  in ;  factions  arise ;  and  families 
now  and  then  spring  up,  whose  ambition  and  intrigues 
throw  the  whole  system  into  confusion.  Thus  in  latter 
days  has  the  tranquillity  of  Little  Britain  been  griev- 
ously disturbed,  and  its  golden  simplicity  of  manners 
threatened  with  total  subversion,  by  the  aspiring  family 
of  a  retired  butcher. 

The  family  of  the  Lambs  had  long  been  among  the 
most  thriving  and  popular  in  the  neighborhood:  the 
Miss  Lambs  were  the  belles  of  Little  Britain,  and  every- 
body was  pleased  when  Old  Lamb  had  made  money 
23 


354  TEE  SKETOH'BOOK, 

enough  to  shut  up  shop,  and  put  his  name  on  a  brass 
plate  on  his  door.  In  an  evil  hour,  however,  one  of  the 
Miss  Lambs  had  the  honor  of  being  a  ladj  in  attendance 
on  the  Lady  Mayoress,  at  her  grand  annual  ball,  on 
which  occasion  she  wore  three  towering  ostrich  feathers 
on  her  head.  The  family  never  got  over  it ;  they  were 
immediately  smitten  with  a  passion  for  high  life ;  set  up 
a  one-horse  carriage,  put  a  bit  of  gold  lace  round  the 
errand  boy's  hat,  and  have  been  the  talk  and  detestation 
of  the  whole  neighborhood  ever  since.  They  could  no 
longer  be  induced  to  play  at  Pope-Joan  or  blind-man's- 
buff;  they  could  endure  no  dances  but  quadrilles,  which 
nobody  had  ever  heard  of  in  Little  Britain;  and  they 
took  to  reading  novels,  talking  bad  French,  and  playing 
upon  the  piano.  Their  brother,  too,  who  had  been 
articled  to  an  attorney,  set  up  for  a  dandy  and  a  critic, 
characters  hitherto  unknown  in  these  parts ;  and  he  con- 
founded the  worthy  folks  exceedingly  by  talking  about 
Kean,  the  opera,  and  the  Edinburgh  Eeview. 

What  was  still  worse,  the  Lambs  gave  a  grand  ball,  to 
which  they  neglected  to  invite  any  of  their  old  neigh- 
bors ;  but  they  had  a  great  deal  of  genteel  company  from 
Theobald's  Eoad,  Eed-Lion  Square,  and  other  parts  to- 
wards the  west.  There  were  several  beaux  of  their  broth- 
er's acquaintance  from  Gray's  Inn  Lane  and  Hatton 
Garden ;  and  not  less  than  three  Aldermen's  ladies  with 
their  daughters.  This  was  not  to  be  forgotten  or  for- 
given*    All  Little   Britain  was  in   an  uproar  with  the 


LITTLE  BRXTAIN.  355 

smacking  of  whips,  tlie  lashing  of  miserable  horses,  and 
the  rattling  and  the  jingling  of  hackney  coaches.  The 
gossips  of  the  neighborhood  might  be  seen  popping  their 
night-caps  out  at  every  window,  watching  the  crazy  vehi- 
cles rnmble  by;  and  there  was  a  knot  of  virulent  old 
cronies,  that  kept  a  look-out  from  a  house  just  opposite 
the  retired  butcher's,  and  scanned  and  criticised  every 
one  that  knocked  at  the  door. 

This  dance  was  a  cause  of  almost  open  war,  and  the 
whole  neighborhood  declared  they  would  have  nothing 
more  to  say  to  the  Lambs.  It  is  true  that  Mrs.  Lamb, 
when  she  had  no  engagements  with  her  quality  acquaint- 
ance, would  give  little  humdrum  tea  junketings  to  some  of 
her  old  cronies,  "  quite,"  as  she  would  say,  "  in  a  friendly 
way ; "  and  it  is  equally  true  that  her  invitations  were 
always  accepted,  in  spite  of  all  previous  vows  to  the  con- 
trary. Nay,  the  good  ladies  would  sit  and  be  delighted 
with  the  music  of  the  Miss  Lambs,  who  would  conde- 
scend to  strum  an  Irish  melody  for  them  on  the  piano ; 
and  they  would  listen  with  wonderful  interest  to  Mrs. 
Lamb's  anecdotes  of  Alderman  Plunket's  family,  of  Port- 
sokenward,  and  the  Miss  Timberlakes,  the  rich  heiresses 
of  Crutched-Friars ;  but  then  they  relieved  their  con- 
sciences, and  averted  the  reproaches  of  their  confeder- 
ates, by  canvassing  at  the  next  gossiping  convocation 
every  thing  that  had  passed,  and  pulling  the  Lambs  and 
their  rout  all  to  pieces. 

The  only  one  of  the  family  that  could  not  be  made 


356  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

fashionable  was  the  retired  butcher  himself.  Honest 
Lamb,  in  spite  of  the  meekness  of  his  name,  was  a  rough, 
hearty  old  fellow,  with  the  voice  of  a  lion,  a  head  of 
black  hair  like  a  shoe  brush,  and  a  broad  face  mottled 
like  his  own  beef.  It  was  in  vain  that  the  daughters 
always  spoke  of  him  as  "the  old  gentleman,"  addressed 
him  as  "  papa,"  in  tones  of  infinite  softness,  and  endeav- 
ored to  coax  him  into  a  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  and 
other  gentlemanly  habits.  Do  what  they  might,  there 
was  no  keeping  down  the  butcher.  His  sturdy  nature 
would  break  through  all  their  glozings.  He  had  a  hearty 
vulgar  good-humor  that  was  irrepressible.  His  very 
jokes  made  his  sensitive  daughters  shudder ;  and  he  per- 
sisted in  wearing  his  blue  cotton  coat  of  a  morning,  din- 
ing at  two  o'clock,  and  having  a  "  bit  of  sausage  with  his 
tea." 

He  was  doomed,  however,  to  share  the  unpopularity  of 
his  family.  He  found  his  old  comrades  gradually  grow- 
ing cold  and  civil  to  him;  no  longer  laughing  at  his 
jokes ;  and  now  and  then  throwing  out  a  fling  at  "  some 
people,"  and  a  hint  about  "  quality  binding."  This  both 
nettled  and  perplexed  the  honest  butcher ;  and  his  wife 
and  daughters,  with  the  consummate  policy  of  the 
shrewder  sex,  taking  advantage  of  the  circumstance,  at 
length  prevailed  upon  him  to  give  up  his  afternoon's  pipe 
and  tankard  at  Wagstaff's ;  to  sit  after  dinner  by  himself, 
and  take  his  pint  of  port — a  liquor  he  detested — and  to 
nod  in  his  chair  in  solitary  and  dismal  gentility. 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  357 

The  Miss  Lambs  might  now  be  seen  flaunting  along 
the  streets  in  French  bonnets,  with  unknown  beaux ;  and 
talking  and  laughing  so  loud  that  it  distressed  the  nerves 
of  every  good  lady  within  hearing.  They  even  went 
so  far  as  to  attempt  patronage,  and  actually  induced  a 
French  dancing-master  to  set  up  in  the  neighborhood; 
but  the  worthy  folks  of  Little  Britain  took  fire  at  it,  and 
did  so  persecute  the  poor  Gaul,  that  he  was  fain  to  pack 
up  fiddle  and  dancing -pumps,  and  decamp  with  such 
precipitation,  that  he  absolutely  forgot  to  pay  for  his 
lodgings. 

I  had  flattered  myself,  at  first,  with  the  idea  that  all 
this  fiery  indignation  on  the  part  of  the  community  was 
merely  the  overflowing  of  their  zeal  for  good  old  English 
manners,  and  their  horror  of  innovation ;  and  I  applauded 
the  silent  contempt  they  were  so  vociferous  in  express- 
ing, for  upstart  pride,  French  fashions,  and  the  Miss 
Lambs.  But  I  grieve  to  say  that  I  soon  perceived  the 
infection  had  taken  hold;  and  that  my  neighbors,  after 
condemning,  were  beginning  to  follow  their  example.  I 
overheard  my  landlady  importuning  her  husband  to  let 
their  daughters  have  one  quarter  at  French  and  music, 
and  that  they  might  take  a  few  lessons  in  quadrille.  I 
even  saw,  in  the  course  of  a  few  Sundays,  no  less  than 
five  French  bonnets,  precisely  like  those  of  the  Miss 
Lambs,  parading  about  Little  Britain. 

I  still  had  my  hopes  that  all  this  folly  would  gradually 
die  away ;  that  the  Lambs  might  move  out  of  the  neigh- 


358  THE  8KETGH.B00K. 

borhood ;  might  die,  or  might  run  away  with  attorneys' 
apprentices ;  and  that  quiet  and  simplicity  might  be 
again  restored  to  the  community.  But  unluckily  a  rival 
power  arose.  An  opulent  oilman  died,  and  left  a  widow 
with  a  large  jointure  and  a  family  of  buxom  daughters. 
The  young  ladies  had  long  been  repining  in  secret  at  the 
parsimony  of  a  prudent  father,  which  kept  down  all  their 
elegant  aspirings.  Their  ambition,  being  now  no  longer 
restrained,  broke  out  into  a  blaze;  and  they  openly  took 
the  field  against  the  family  of  the  butcher.  It  is  true 
that  the  Lambs,  having  had  the  first  start,  had  naturally 
an  advantage  of  them  in  the  fashionable  career.  They 
could  speak  a  little  bad  French,  play  the  piano,  dance 
quadrilles,  and  had  formed  high  acquaintances ;  but  the 
Trotters  were  not  to  be  distanced.  When  the  Lambs 
appeared  with  two  feathers  in  their  hats,  the  Miss  Trot- 
ters mounted  four,  and  of  twice  as  fine  colors.  If  the 
Lambs  gave  a  dance,  the  Trotters  were  sure  not  to  be 
behindhand  :  and  though  they  might  not  boast  of  as  good 
company,  yet  they  had  double  the  number,  and  were  twice 
as  merry. 

The  whole  community  has  at  length  divided  itself  into 
fashionable  factions,  under  the  banners  of  these  two 
families.  The  old  games  of  Pope- Joan  and  Tom-come- 
tickle-me  are  entirely  discarded ;  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  getting  up  an  honest  country  dance ;  and  on  my  at- 
tempting to  kiss  a  young  lady  under  the  mistletoe  last 
Christmas,  I  was  indignantly  repulsed ;  the  Miss  Lambs 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  359 

having  pronounced  it  "  shocking  vulgar."  Bitter  rivalry 
has  also  broken  out  as  to  the  most  fashionable  part  of 
Little  Britain ;  the  Lambs  standing  up  for  the  dignity  of 
Cross-Keys  Square,  and  the  Trotters  for  the  vicinity  of 
St.  Bartholomew's. 

Thus  is  this  little  territory  torn  by  factions  and  inter- 
nal dissensions,  like  the  great  empire  whose  name  it 
bears ;  and  what  will  be  the  result  would  puzzle  the 
apothecary  himself,  with  all  his  talent  at  prognostics,  to 
determine  ;  though  I  apprehend  that  it  will  terminate  in 
the  total  downfall  of  genuine  John  Bullism. 

The  immediate  effects  are  extremely  unpleasant  to  me. 
Being  a  single  man,  and,  as  I  observed  before,  rather  an 
idle  good-for-nothing  personage,  I  have  been  considered 
the  only  gentleman  by  profession  in  the  place.  I  stand 
therefore  in  high  favor  with  both  parties,  and  have  to 
hear  all  their  cabinet  councils  and  mutual  backbitings. 
As  I  am  too  civil  not  to  agree  with  the  ladies  on  all  oc- 
casions, I  have  committed  myself  most  horribly  with  both 
parties,  by  abusing  their  opponents.  I  might  manage  to 
reconcile  this  to  my  conscience,  which  is  a  truly  accom- 
modating one,  but  I  cannot  to  my  apprehension — if  the 
Lambs  and  Trotters  ever  come  to  a  reconciliation,  and 
compare  notes,  I  am  ruined ! 

I  have  determined,  therefore,  to  beat  a  retreat  in  time, 
and  am  actually  looking  out  for  some  other  nest  in  this 
great  city,  where  old  English  manners  are  still  kept  up ; 
where  French  is  neither  eaten,  drunk,  danced,  nor  spo- 


360  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

ken ;  and  where  there  are  no  fashionable  families  of  re- 
tired tradesmen.  This  found,  I  will,  like  a  veteran  rat, 
hasten  away  before  I  have  an  old  house  about  my  ears ; 
bid  a  long,  though  a  sorrowful  adieu  to  my  present 
abode,  and  leave  the  rival  factions  of  the  Lambs  and 
the  Trotters  to  divide  the  distracted  empire  of  Little 
Bbitain. 


STEATFORD-ON-AVON. 

Thou  soft-flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream 
Of  things  more  than  mortal  sweet  Shakspeare  would  dream; 
The  fairies  by  moonlight  dance  round  his  green  bed, 
For  hallow'd  the  turf  is  which  pillow'd  his  head. 

Garrick. 


O  a  homeless  man,  who  has  no  spot  on  this  wide 
Avorld  which  he  can  truly  call  his  own,  there  is 
a  momentary  feeling  of  something  like  inde- 
pendence and  territorial  consequence,  when,  after  a  weary 
day's  travel,  he  kicks  off  his  boots,  thrusts  his  feet  into 
slippers,  and  stretches  himself  before  an  inn  fire.  Let  the 
world  without  go  as  it  may ;  let  kingdoms  rise  or  fall,  so 
long  as  he  has  the  wherewithal  to  pay  his  bill,  he  is,  for 
the  time  being,  the  very  monarch  of  all  he  surveys.  The 
arm-chair  is  his  throne,  the  poker  his  sceptre,  and  the 
little  parlor,  some  twelve  feet  square,  his  undisputed  em- 
pire. It  is  a  morsel  of  certainty,  snatched  from  the  midst 
of  the  uncertainties  of  life  ;  it  is  a  sunny  moment  gleam- 
ing out  kindly  on  a  cloudy  day :  and  he  who  has  advanced 
some  way  on  the  pilgrimage  of  existence,  knows  the  im- 
portance of  husbanding  even  morsels  and  moments  of 
enjoyment     "Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn?" 

361 


862  THE  SKETCH-BOOK.      ' 

thought  I,  as  I  gave  the  fire  a  stir,  lolled  back  in  my 
elbow-chair,  and  cast  a  complacent  look  about  the  little 
parlor  of  the  Red  Horse,  at  Stratford-on-Avon. 

The  words  of  sweet  Shakspeare  were  just  passing 
through  mj  mind  as  the  clock  struck  midnight  from 
the  tower  of  the  church  in  which  he  lies  buried.  There 
was  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door,  and  a  pretty  chambermaid, 
putting  in  her  smiling  face,  inquired,  with  a  hesitating 
air,  whether  I  had  rung.  I  understood  it  as  a  modest 
hint  that  it  was  time  to  retire.  My  dream  of  absolute 
dominion  was  at  an  end ;  so  abdicating  my  throne,  like 
a  prudent  potentate,  to  avoid  being  deposed,  and  putting 
the  Stratford  Guide-Book  under  my  arm,  as  a  pillow 
companion,  I  went  to  bed,  and  dreamt  all  night  of  Shak- 
speare, the  jubilee,  and  David  Garrick. 

The  next  morning  was  one  of  those  quickening  morn- 
ings which  we  sometimes  have  in  early  spring ;  for  it  was 
about  the  middle  of  March.  The  chills  of  a  long  winter 
had  suddenly  given  way ;  the  north  wind  had  spent  its 
last  gasp ;  and  a  mild  air  came  stealing  from  the  west, 
breathing  the  breath  of  life  into  nature,  and  wooing 
every  bud  and  flower  to  burst  forth  into  fragrance  and 
beauty. 

I  had  come  to  Stratford  on  a  poetical  -pilgrimage.  My 
first  visit  was  to  the  house  where  Shakspeare  was  born, 
and  where,  according  to  tradition,  he  was  brought  up  to 
his  father's  craft  of  wool-combing.  It  is  a  small,  mean- 
looking  edifice  of  wood  and  plaster,  a  true  nestling-place 


BTBA  TFORD-ON-A  VOUt,  863 

of  genius,  which  seems  to  delight  in  hatching  its  off- 
\  spring  in  by-corners.  The  walls  of  its  squalid  chambers 
are  covered  with  names  and  inscriptions  in  every  lan- 
!  guage,  by  pilgrims  of  all  nations,  ranks,  and  conditions, 
'from  the  prince'  to  the  peasant;  and  present  a  simple, 
[but  striking  instance  of  the  spontaneous  and  universal 
■homage  of  mankind  to  the  great  poet  of  nature. 

The  house  is  shown  by  a  garrulous  old  lady,  in  a  frosty 
red  face,  lighted  up  by  a  cold  blue  anxious  eye,  and  gar- 
nished with  artificial  locks  of  flaxen  hair,  curling  from 
under  an  exceedingly  dirty  cap.  She  was  peculiarly  as- 
siduous in  exhibiting  the  relics  with  which  this,  like  all 
other  celebrated  shrines,  abounds.  There  was  the  shat- 
tered stock  of  the  very  match-lock  with  which  Shak- 
speare  shot  the  deer,  on  his  poaching  exploits.  There, 
too,  was  his  tobacco-box;  which  proves  that  he  was 
a  rival  smoker  of  Sir  Walter  Ealeigh  :  the  sword  also 
with  which  he  played  Hamlet ;  and  the  identical  lan- 
tern with  which  Friar  Laurence  discovered  Komeo  and 
Juliet  at  the  tomb !  There  was  an  ample  supply  also 
of  Shakspeare's  mulberry-tree,  which  seems  to  have  as 
extraordinary  powers  of  self-multiplication  as  the  wood 
of  the  true  cross ;  of  which  there  is  enough  extant  to 
build  a  ship  of  the  line. 

The  most  favorite  object  of  curiosity,  however,  is 
Shakspeare's  chair.  It  stands  in  the  chimney  nook  of  a 
small  gloomy  chamber,  just  behind  what  was  his  father's 
shop.     Here  he  may  many  a  time  have  sat  when  a  boy, 


364  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

watcliing  tlie  slowly  revolving  spit  witli  all  the  longing  of 
an  urchin  ;  or  of  an  evening,  listening  to  the  cronies  and 
gossips  of  Stratford,  dealing  forth  church-yard  tales  and 
legendary  anecdotes  of  the  troublesome  times  of  Eng- 
land. In  this  chair  it  is  the  custom  of  every  one  that 
visits  the  house  to  sit :  whether  this  be  done  with  the 
hope  of  imbibing  any  of  the  inspiration  of  the  bard  I  am 
at  a  loss  to  say,  I  merely  mention  the  fact ;  and  mine 
hostess  privately  assured  me,  that,  though  built  of  solid 
oak,  such  was  the  fervent  zeal  of  devotees,  that  the  chair 
had  to  be  new  bottomed  at  least  once  in  three  years.  It 
is  worthy  of  notice  also,  in  the  history  of  this  extraordi- 
nary chair,  that  it  partakes  something  of  the  volatile  na- 
ture of  the  Santa  Casa  of  Loretto,  or  the  flying  chair  of 
the  Arabian  enchanter ;  for  though  sold  some  few  years 
since  to  a  northern  princess,  yet,  strange  to  tell,  it  has 
found  its  way  back  again  to  the  old  chimney  corner. 

I  am  always  of  easy  faith  in  such  matters,  and  am  ever 
willing  to  be  deceived,  where  the  deceit  is  pleasant  and 
costs  nothing.  I  am  therefore  a  ready  believer  in  relics, 
legends,  and  local  anecdotes  of  goblins  and  great  men; 
and  would  advise  all  travellers  who  travel  for  their  grati- 
fication to  be  the  same.  What  is  it  to  us,  whether  these 
stories  be  true  or  false,  so  long  as  we  can  persuade  our- 
selves into  the  belief  of  them,  and  enjoy  all  the  charm  of 
the  reality?  There  is  nothing  like  resolute  good-hu- 
mored credulity  in  these  matters  ;  and  on  this  occasion  I 
went  even  so  far  as  willingly  to  believe  the  claims  of 


BTBA  TFORB-  ON- A  VON.  365 

mine  hostess  to  a  lineal  descent  from  the  poet,  when, 
luckily,  for  my  faith,  she  put  into  my  hands  a  play  of  her 
own  composition,  which  set  all  belief  in  her  consanguin- 
ity at  defiance. 

From  the  birth-place  of  Shakspeare  a  few  paces 
brought  me  to  his  grave.  He  lies  buried  in  the  chancel 
of  the  parish  church,  a  large  and  venerable  pile,  moulder- 
ing with  age,  but  richly  ornamented.  It  stands  on  the 
banks  of  the  Avon,  on  an  embowered  point,  and  sepa- 
rated by  adjoining  gardens  from  the  suburbs  of  the^town. 
Its  situation  is  quiet  and  retired  :  the  river  runs  murmur- 
ing at  the  foot  of  the  church-yard,  and  the  elms  which 
grow  upon  its  banks  droop  their  branches  into  its  clear 
bosom.  An  avenue  of  limes,  the  boughs  of  which  are 
curiously  interlaced,  so  as  to  form  in  summer  an  arched 
way  of  foliage,  leads  up  from  the  gate  of  the  yard  to  the 
church  porch.  The  graves  are  overgrown  v/ith  grass ;  the 
gray  tombstones,  some  of  them  nearly  sunk  into  the 
earth,  are  half  covered  with  moss,  which  has  likewise 
tinted  the  reverend  old  building.  Small  birds  have 
built  their  nests  among  the  cornices  and  fissures  of  the 
walls,  and  keep  up  a  continual  flutter  and  chirping ;  and 
rooks  are  sailing  and  cawing  about  its  lofty  gray  spire. 

In  the  course  of  my  rambles  I  met  with  the  gray- 
headed  sexton,  Edmonds,  and  accompanied  him  home  to 
get  the  key  of  the  church.  He  had  lived  in  Stratford, 
man  and  boy,  for  eighty  years,  and  seemed  still  to  con- 
sider himself  a  vigorous  man,  with  the  trivial  exception 


S66  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

that  he  had  nearly  lost  the  use  of  his  legs  for  a  few  years 
past.  His  dwelling  was  a  cottage,  looking  out  upon  the 
Avon  and  its  bordering  meadows ;  and  was  a  picture  of 


'^ly  Crayou.HeL. 

that  neatness,  order,  and  comfort,  which  pervade  the 
humblest  dwellings  in  this  country.  A  low  white-washed 
room,  with  a  stone  floor  carefully  scrubbed,  served  for 
parlor,  kitchen,  and  hall.  Rows  of  pewter  and  earthen 
dishes  glittered  along  the  dresser.  On  an  old  oaken 
table,  well  rubbed  and  polished,  lay  the  family  Bible 
and  prayer-book,  and  the  drawer  contained  the  family 
library,  composed  of  about  half  a  score  of  well-thumbed 
volumes.  An  ancient  clock,  that  important  article  of  cot- 
tage furniture,  ticked  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room ; 
with  a  bright  warming-pan  hanging  on  one  side  of  it,  and 
the  old  man's  horn-handled  Sunday  cane  on  the  other 


STRA  TFOBD-ON'A  VON.  367 

The  fireplace,  as  usual,  was  wide  and  deep  enough  to  ad- 
mit a  gossip  knot  within  its  jambs.  In  one  corner  sat  the 
old  man's  granddaughter  sewing,  a  pretty  blue-eyed  girl, 
— and  in  the  opposite  corner  was  a  superannuated  crony, 
whom  he  addressed  by  the  name  of  John  Ange,  and  who, 
I  found,  had  been  his  companion  from  childhood.  They 
had  played  together  in  infancy ;  they  had  worked  to- 
gether in  manhood;  they  were  now  tottering  about  and 
gossiping  away  the  evening  of  life ;  and  in  a  short  time 
they  will  probably  be  buried  together  in  the  neighboring 
churchyard.  It  is  not  often  that  we  see  two  streams  of 
existence  running  thus  evenly  and  tranquilly  side  by 
side ;  it  is  only  in  such  quiet  "  bosom  scenes  "  of  life  that 
they  are  to  be  met  with. 

I  had  hoped  to  gather  some  traditionary  anecdotes  of 
the  bard  from  these  ancient  chroniclers ;  but  they  had 
nothing  new  to  impart.  The  long  interval  during  which 
Shakspeare's  writings  lay  in  comparative  neglect  has 
spread  its  shadow  over  his  history ;  and  it  is  his  good  or 
evil  lot  that  scarcely  any  thing  remains  to  his  biograph- 
ers but  a  scanty  handful  of  conjectures. 

The  sexton  and  his  companion  had  been  employed  as 
carpenters  on  the  preparations  for  the  celebrated  Strat- 
ford jubilee,  and  they  remembered  Garrick,  the  prime 
mover  of  the  fete,  who  superintended  the  arrangements, 
and  who,  according  to  the  sexton,  was  "a  short  punch 
man,  very  lively  and  bustling."  John  Ange  had  assisted 
also    in   cutting   down   Shakspeare's    mulberry   tree,   of 


368  THE  8EETGH-B00E. 

which  he  had  a  morsel  in  his  pocket  for  sale ;  no  doubt  a 
sovereign  quickener  of  literary  conception. 

I  was  grieved  to  hear  these  two  worthy  wights  speak 
very  dubiously  of  the  eloquent  dame  who  shows  the 
Shakspeare  house.  John  Ange  shook  his  head  when  I 
mentioned  her  valuable  collection  of  relics,  particularly 
her  remains  of  the  mulberry  tree ;  and  the  old  sexton 
even  expressed  a  doubt  as  to  Shakspeare  having  been 
born  in  her  house.  I  soon  discovered  that  he  looked 
upon  her  mansion  with  an  evil  eye,  as  a  rival  to  the 
poet's  tomb ;  the  latter  having  comparatively  but  few 
visitors.  Thus  it  is  that  historians  differ  at  the  very 
outset,  and  mere  pebbles  make  the  stream  of  truth  di- 
verge into  different  channels  even  at  the  fountain  head. 

"We  approached  the  church  through  the  avenue  of 
limes,  and  entered  by  a  Gothic  porch,  highly  orna- 
mented, with  carved  doors  of  massive  oak.  The  interior 
is  spacious,  and  the  architecture  and  embellishments 
superior  to  those  of  most  country  churches.  There  are 
several  ancient  monuments  of  nobility  and  gentry,  over 
some  of  which  hang  funeral  escutcheons,  and  banners 
dropping  piecemeal  from  the  walls.  The  tomb  of  Shak- 
speare is  in  the  chancel.  The  place  is  solemn  and  sepul- 
chral. Tall  elms  wave  before  the  pointed  windows,  and 
the  Avon,  which  runs  at  a  short  distance  from  the  walls, 
keeps  up  a  low  perpetual  murmur.  A  flat  stone  marks 
the  spot  where  the  bard  is  buried.  There  are  four  lines 
inscribed  on  it,  said  to  have  been  written  by  himself,  and 


STBA  TFOBD-ONA  VON,  369 

which  have  in  them  something  extremely  awful.  If  they 
are  indeed  his  own,  they  show  that  solicitude  about  the 
quiet  of  the  grave,  which  seems  natural  to  fine  sensibili- 
ties and  thoughtful  minds. 

Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake  forbeare 
To  dig  the  dust  enclosed  here. 
Blessed  be  he  that  spares  these  stones, 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones. 

Just  over  the  grave,  in  a  niche  of  the  wall,  is  a  bust 
of  Shakspeare,  put  up  shortly  after  his  death,  and  con- 
sidered as  a  resemblance.  The  aspect  is  pleasant  and 
serene,  with  a  finely-arched  forehead;  and  I  thought 
I  could  read  in  it  clear  indications  of  that  cheerful,  so- 
cial disposition,  by  which  he  was  as  much  characterized 
among  his  contemporaries  as  by  the  vastness  of  his  gen- 
ius. The  inscription  mentions  his  age  at  the  time  of 
his  decease — fifty-three  years ;  an  untimely  death  for  the 
world :  for  what  fruit  might  not  have  been  expected 
from  the  golden  autumn  of  such  a  mind,  sheltered  as  it 
was  from  the  stormy  vicissitudes  of  life,  and  flourishing 
in  the  sunshine  of  popular  and  royal  favor. 

The  inscription  on  the  tombstone  has  not  been  without 
its  effect.  It  has  prevented  the  removal  of  his  remains 
from  the  bosom  of  his  native  place  to  Westminster  Ab- 
bey, which  was  at  one  time  contemplated.  A  few  years 
since  also,  as  some  laborers  were  digging  to  make  an 
adjoining  vault,  the  earth  caved  in,  so  as  to  leave  a  va- 
U 


370  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

cant  space  almost  like  an  arch,  through  which  one  might 
have  reached  into  his  grave.  No  one,  however,  presumed 
to  meddle  with  his  remains  so  awfully  guarded  by  a 
malediction ;  and  lest  any  of  the  idle  or  the  curious,  or 
any  collector  of  relics,  should  be  tempted  to  commit 
depredations,  the  old  sexton  kept  watch  over  the  place 
for  two  days,  until  the  vault  was  finished  and  the  aper- 
ture closed  again.  He  told  me  that  he  had  made  bold  to 
look  in  at  the  hole,  but  could  see  neither  cofl&n  nor  bones ; 
nothing  but  dust.  It  was  something,  I  thought,  to  have 
seen  the  dust  of  Shakspeare. 

Next  to  this  grave  are  those  of  his  wife,  his  favorite 
daughter,  Mrs.  Hall,  and  others  of  his  family.  On  a 
tomb  close  by,  also,  is  a  full-length  effigy  of  his  old 
friend  John  Combe  of  usurious  memory ;  on  whom  he 
is  said  to  have  written  a  ludicrous  epitaph.  There  are 
other  monuments  around,  but  the  mind  refuses  to  dwell 
on  any  thing  that  is  not  connected  with  Shakspeare.  His 
idea  pervades  the  place ;  the  whole  pile  seems  but  as 
his  mausoleum.  The  feelings,  no  longer  checked  and 
thwarted  by  doubt,  here  indulge  in  perfect  confidence  : 
other  traces  of  him  may  be  false  or  dubious,  but  here  is 
palpable  evidence  and  absolute  certainty.  As  I  trod  the 
sounding  pavement,  there  was  something  intense  and 
thrilling  in  the  idea,  that,  in  very  truth,  the  remains  of 
Shakspeare  were  mouldering  beneath  my  feet.  It  was  a 
long  time  before  I  could  prevail  upon  myself  to  leave 
the  place ;  and  as  I  passed  through  the  churchyard,  I 


STBATFORD-ON-AVON.  371 

plucked  a  branch  from  one  of  the  yew  trees,  the  only 
relic  that  I  have  brought  from  Stratford. 

I  had  now  visited  the  usual  objects  of  a  pilgrim's  devo- 
tion, but  I  had  a  desire  to  see  the  old  family  seat  of  the 
Lucys,  at  Charlecot,  and  to  ramble  through  the  park 
where  Shakspeare,  in  company  with  some  of  the  roysters 
of  Stratford,  committed  his  youthful  offence  of  deer- 
stealing.  In  this  hare-brained  exploit  we  are  told  that 
he  was  taken  prisoner,  and  carried  to  the  keeper's  lodge, 
where  he  remained  all  night  in  doleful  captivity.  When 
brought  into  the  presence  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  his  treat- 
ment must  have  been  galling  and  humiliating ;  for  it  so 
wrought  upon  his  spirit  as  to  produce  a  rough  pasqui- 
nade, which  was  affixed  to  the  park  gate  at  Charlecot.* 

This  flagitious  attack  upon  the  dignity  of  the  knight  so 
incensed  him,  that  he  applied  to  a  lawyer  at  Warwick  to 
put  the  severity  of  the  laws  in  force  against  the  rhyming 
deer-stalker.  Shakspeare  did  not  wait  to  brave  the 
united  puissance  of  a  knight  of  the  shire  and  a  country 
attorney.     He  forthwith  abandoned  the  pleasant  banks  of 

*  The  following  is  the  only  stanza  extant  of  this  lampoon  : — 

A  parliament  member,  a  justice  of  peace, 
At  home  a  poor  scarecrow,  at  London  an  asse, 
If  lowsie  is  Lucy,  as  soem  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  Lucy  is  lowsie,  whatever  befall  it. 

He  thinks  himself  great ; 

Yet  an  asse  in  his  state, 
We  allow  by  his  ears  but  with  asses  to  mate, 
If  Lucy  is  lowsie,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it. 
Then  sing  lowsie  Lucy  whatever  befall  it. 


372  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  Avon  and  liis  paternal  trade  ;  wandered  away  to  Lon- 
don; became  a  hanger-on  to  the  theatres  ;  then  an  actor; 
and,  finally,  wrote  for  the  stage ;  and  thus,  through  the 
persecution  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  Stratford  lost  an  indif- 
ferent wool-comber,  and  the  world  gained  an  immortal 
poet.  He  retained,  however,  for  a  long  time,  a  sense  of 
the  harsh  treatment  of  the  Lord  of  Charlecot,  and  re- 
venged himself  in  his  writings ;  but  in  the  sportive  way 
of  a  good-natured  mind.  Sir  Thomas  is  said  to  be  the 
original  Justice  Shallow,  and  the  satire  is  slyly  fixed 
upon  him  by  the  justice's  armorial  bearings,  which,  like 
those  of  the  knight,  had  white  luces*  in  the  quarter- 
ings. 

Various  attempts  have  been  made  by  his  biographers 
to  soften  and  explain  away  this  early  transgression  of 
the  poet;  but  I  look  upon  it  as  one  of  those  thought- 
less exploits  natural  to  his  situation  and  turn  of  mind. 
Shakspeare,  when  young,  had  doubtless  all  the  wildness 
and  irregularity  of  an  ardent,  undisciplined,  and  undi- 
rected genius.  The  poetic  temperament  has  naturally 
something  in  it  of  the  vagabond.  When  left  to  itself  it 
runs  loosely  and  wildly,  and  delights  in  every  thing  ec- 
centric and  licentious.  It  is  often  a  turn-up  of  a  die,  in 
the  gambling  freaks  of  fate,  whether  a  natural  genius 
shall  turn  out  a  great  rogue  or  a  great  poet ;  and  had 
not  Shakspeare's  mind  fortunately  taken  a  literary  bias, 

*  The  luce  is  a  pike  or  Jack,  and  abounds  in  the  Avon  about  Charlecot. 


8TRATF0BD-0N-AY0N'.  373 

he  might  have  as  daringly  transcended  all  civil,  as  he  has 
all  dramatic  laws. 

I  have  little  doubt  that,  in  early  life,  when  running, 
like  an  unbroken  colt,  about  the  neighborhood  of  Strat- 
ford, he  was  to  be  found  in  the  company  of  all  kinds 
of  odd  anomalous  characters  ;  that  he  associated  with 
all  the  madcaps  of  the  place,  and  was  one  of  those 
unlucky  urchins,  at  mention  of  whom  old  men  shake 
their  heads,  and  predict  that  they  will  one  day  come 
to  the  gallows.  To  him  the  poaching  in  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy's  park  was  doubtless  like  a  foray  to  a  Scottish 
knight,  and  struck  his  eager,  and,  as  yet  untamed,  im- 
agination, as  something  delightfully  adventurous.* 

*  A  proof  of  Shakspeare's  random  habits  and  associates  in  his  youthful 
days  may  be  found  in  a  traditionary  anecdote,  picked  up  at  Stratford  by 
the  elder  Ireland,  and  mentioned  in  his  "  Picturesque  Views  on  the  Avon." 

About  seven  miles  from  Stratford  lies  the  thirsty  little  market  town  of 
Bedford,  famous  for  its  ale.  Two  societies  of  the  village  yeomanry  used  to 
meet,  under  the  appellation  of  the  Bedford  topers,  and  to  challenge  the 
lovers  of  good  ale  of  the  neighboring  villages  to  a  contest  of  drinking. 
Among  others,  the  people  of  Stratford  were  called  out  to  prove  the 
strength  of  their  heads ;  and  in  the  number  of  the  champions  was  Shak- 
speare,  who,  in  spite  of  the  proverb  that  "they  who  drink  beer  will  think 
beer,"  was  as  true  to  his  ale  as  Falstafl  to  his  sack.  The  chivalry  of  Strat- 
ford was  staggered  at  the  first  onset,  and  sounded  a  retreat  while  they  had 
yet  legs  to  carry  them  off  the  field.  They  had  scarcely  marched  a  mile 
when,  their  legs  failing  them,  they  were  forced  to  lie  down  under  a  crab- 
tree,  where  they  passed  the  night.  It  is  still  standing,  and  goes  by  the 
name  of  Shakspeare's  tree. 

In  the  morning  his  companions  awaked  the  bard,  and  proposed  return- 
ing to  Bedford,  but  he  declined,  saying  he  had  had  enough,  having  drank 
with 

Piping  Pebworth,  Dancing  Marston, 
Haunted  Hilbro',  Hungry  Grafton, 


374  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  old  mansion  of  CHarlecot  and  its  surrounding 
park  still  remain  in  the  possession  of  the  Lucy  family, 
and  are  peculiarly  interesting,  from  being  connected 
with  this  whimsical  but  eventful  circumstance  in  the 
scanty  history  of  the  bard.  As  the  house  stood  but 
little  more  than  three  miles'  distance  from  Stratford, 
I  resolved  to  pay  it  a  pedestrian  visit,  that  I  might 
stroll  leisurely  through  some  of  those  scenes  from 
which  Shakspeare  must  have  derived  his  earliest  ideas 
of  rural  imagery. 

The  country  was  yet  naked  and  leafless ;  but  English 
scenery  is  always  verdant,  and  the  sudden  change  in  the 
temperature  of  the  weather  was  surprising  in  its  quicken- 
ing effects  upon  the  landscape.  It  was  inspiring  and  ani- 
mating to  witness  this  first  awakening  of  spring ;  to  feel 
its  warm  breath  stealing  over  the  senses ;  to  see  the 
moist  mellow  earth  beginning  to  put  forth  the  green 
sprout  and  the  tender  blade  :  and  the  trees  and  shrubs, 
in  their  reviving  tints  and  bursting  buds,  giving  the 
promise  of  returning  foliage  and  flower.  The  cold 
snow-drop,  that  little  borderer  on  the  skirts  of  winter, 
was  to  be  seen  with  its  chaste  white  blossoms  in  the 
small  gardens  before  the  cottages.     The  bleating  of  the 

Dudging  Exhall,  Papist  Wicksford, 
Beggarly  Broom,  and  Drunken  Bedford. 

♦* The  villages  here  alluded  to,"  says  Ireland,  "still  bear  the  epithets 
thus  given  them:  the  people  of  Pebworth  are  still  famed  for  their  skill  on 
the  pipe  and  tabor;  Hilborough  is  now  called  Haunted  Hilborough;  and 
Q-rafton  is  famous  for  the  poverty  of  its  soil." 


8TRA  TFORD-ON-A  VON  375 

new-dropt  lambs  was  faintly  heard  from  the  fields. 
The  sparrow  twittered  about  the  thatched  eaves  and 
budding  hedges;  the  robin  threw  a  livelier  note  into 
his  late  querulous  wintry  strain ;  and  the  lark,  spring- 
ing up  from  the  reeking  bosom  of  the  meadow,  tow- 
ered away  into  the  bright  fleecy  cloud,  pouring  forth 
torrents  of  melody.  As  I  watched  the  little  songster, 
mounting  up  higher  and  higher,  until  his  body  was 
a  mere  speck  on  the  white  bosom  of  the  cloud,  while 
the  ear  was  still  filled  with  his  music,  it  called  to  mind 
Shakspeare's  exquisite  little  song  in  Cymbeline  : 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs, 

On  ehaliced  flowers  that  lies. 

And  winking  mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes  ; 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet  arise  ! 

Indeed  the  whole  country  about  here  is  poetic  ground : 
every  thing  is  associated  with  the  idea  of  Shakspeare. 
Every  old  cottage  that  I  saw,  I  fancied  into  some  resort 
of  his  boyhood,  where  he  had  acquired  his  intimate 
knowledge  of  rustic  life  and  manners,  and  heard  those 
legendary  tales  and  wild  superstitions  which  he  has 
woven  like  witchcraft  into  his  dramas.  For  in  his  time, 
we  are  told,  it  was  a  popular  amusement  in  winter  even- 
ings "to  sit  round  the  fire,  and  tell  merry  tales  of  er- 


376  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK 

rant  knights,  queens,  lovers,  lords,  ladies,  giants,  dwarfs, 
thieves,  cheaters,  witches,  fairies,  goblins,  and  friars."  * 

My  route  for  a  part  of  the  way  lay  in  sight  of  the 
Avon,  which  made  a  variety  of  the  most  fancy  doublings 
and  windings  through  a  wide  and  fertile  valley;  some- 
times glittering  from  among  willows,  which  fringed  its 
borders ;  sometimes  disappearing  among  groves,  or  be- 
neath green  banks ;  and  sometimes  rambling  out  into  full 
view,  and  making  an  azure  sweep  round  a  slope  of  mea- 
dow land.  This  beautiful  bosom  of  country  is  called  the 
Vale  of  the  Red  Horse.  A  distant  line  of  undulating 
blue  hills  seems  to  be  its  boundary,  whilst  all  the  soft 
intervening  landscape  lies  in  a  manner  enchained  in  the 
silver  links  of  the  Avon. 

After  pursuing  the  road  for  about  three  miles,  I  turned 
off  into  a  footpath,  which  led  along  the  borders  of  fields, 
and  under  hedgerows  to  a  private  gate  of  the  park ;  there 
was  a  stile,  however,  for  the  benefit  of  the  pedestrian; 
there  being  a  public  right  of  way  through  the  grounds. 
I  delight  in  these  hospitable  estates,  in  which  every  one 
has  a  kind  of  property — at  least  as  far  as  the  footpath  is 
concerned.     It  in  some  measure  reconciles  a  poor  man  to 

*  Scot,  in  his  "Discoverie  ofWitehcraf  t, "  enumerates  a  host  of  these 
fireside  fancies.  "And  they  have  so  fraid  us  with  bull-beggars,  spirits, 
witches,  urchins,  elves,  hags,  fairies,  satyrs,  pans,  faunes,  syrens,  kit 
with  the  can  sticke,  tritons,  centaurs,  dwarfes,  giantes,  imps,  calcars,  con- 
jurors, nymphes,  changelmgs,  incubus,  Robin-good-fellow,  the  spoorne, 
the  mare,  the  man  in  the  oke,  the  hell-waine,  the  fier-drake,  the  puckle, 
Tom  Thombe,  hobgoblms,  Tom  Tumbler,  boneless,  and  such  other  bugs^ 
that  we  were  afraid  of  our  own  shadowes." 


8TRA  TFORD-ON'A  VON.  377 

his  lot,  and,  what  is  more,  to  the  better  lot  of  his  neigh- 
bor, thus  to  have  parks  and  pleasure-grounds  thrown 
open  for  his  recreation.  He  breathes  the  pure  air  as 
freely,  and  lolls  as  luxuriously  under  the  shade,  as  the 
lord  of  the  soil ;  and  if  he  has  not  the  privilege  of  calling 
all  that  he  sees  his  own,  he  has  not,  at  the  same  time,  the 
trouble  of  paying  for  it,  and  keeping  it  in  order. 

I  now  found  myself  among  noble  avenues  of  oaks  and 
elms,  whose  vast  size  bespoke  the  growth  of  centuries. 
The  wind  sounded  solemnly  among  their  branches,  and 
the  rooks  cawed  from  their  hereditary  nests  in  the  tree 
tops.  The  eye  ranged  through  a  long  lessening  vista, 
with  nothing  to  interrupt  the  view  but  a  distant  statue ; 
and  a  vagrant  deer  stalking  like  a  shadow  across  the 
opening. 

There  is  something  about  these  stately  old  avenues 
that  has  the  effect  of  Gothic  architecture,  not  merely 
from  the  pretended  similarity  of  form,  but  from  their 
bearing  the  evidence  of  long  duration,  and  of  hating  had 
their  origin  in  a  period  of  time  with  which  we  associate 
ideas  of  romantic  grandeur.  They  betoken  also  the  long- 
settled  dignity,  and  proudly-concentrated  independence 
of  an  ancient  family;  and  I  have  heard  a  worthy  but 
aristocratic  old  friend  observe,  when  speaking  of  the 
sumptuous  palaces  of  modern  gentry,  that  "  money  could 
do  much  with  stone  and  mortar,  but,  thank  Heaven,  there 
was  no  such  thing  as  suddenly  building  up  an  avenue  of 
oaks." 


378  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

It  was  from  -wandering  in  early  life  among  this  rich 
scenery,  and  about  the  romantic  solitudes  of  the  adjoin- 
ing park  of  FuUbroke,  which  then  formed  a  part  of  the 
Lucy  estate,  that  some  of  Shakspeare's  commentators 
have  supposed  he  derived  his  noble  forest  meditations 
of  Jaques,  and  the  enchanting  woodland  pictures  in  "  As 
you  like  it."  It  is  in  lonely  wanderings  through  such 
scenes,  that  the  mind  drinks  deep  but  quiet  draughts  of 
inspiration,  and  becomes  intensely  sensible  of  the  beauty 
and  majesty  of  nature.  The  imagination  kindles  into 
reverie  and  rapture ;  vague  but  exquisite  images  and 
ideas  keep  breaking  upon  it ;  and  we  revel  in  a  mute  and 
almost  incommunicable  luxury  of  thought.  It  was  in 
some  such  mood,  and  perhaps  under  one  of  those  very 
trees  before  me,  which  threw  their  broad  shades  over  the 
grassy  banks  and  quivering  waters  of  the  Avon,  that  the 
poet's  fancy  may  have  sallied  forth  into  that  little  song 
which  breathes  the  very  soul  of  a  rural  voluptuary : 

Under  the  green  wood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  throat 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  note, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither. 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

I  had  now  come  in  sight  of  the  house.  It  is  a  large 
building  of  brick,  with  stone  quoins,  and  is  in  the  Gothic 


BTRATFORD-ON-A  VON.  379 

style  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  day,  haying  been  built  in  the 
first  year  of  her  reign.  The  exterior  remains  very  nearly 
in  its  original  state,  and  may  be  considered  a  fair  speci- 
men of  the  residence  of  a  wealthy  country  gentleman  of 
those  days.  A  great  gateway  opens  from  the  park  into  a 
kind  of  courtyard  in  front  of  the  house,  ornamented  with 
a  grass-plot,  shrubs,  and  flower-beds.  The  gateway  is  in 
imitation  of  the  ancient  barbacan ;  being  a  kind  of  out- 
post, and  flanked  by  towers ;  though  evidently  for  mere 
ornament,  instead  of  defence.  The  front  of  the  house  is 
completely  in  the  old  style ;  with  stone-shafted  case- 
ments, a  great  bow-window  of  heavy  stone-work,  and  a 
portal  with  armorial  bearings  over  it,  carved  in  stone. 
At  each  corner  of  the  building  is  an  octagon  tower,  sur- 
mounted by  a  gilt  ball  and  weather-cock. 

The  Avon,  which  winds  through  the  park,  makes  a 
bend  just  at  the  foot  of  a  gently-sloping  bank,  which 
sweeps  down  from  the  rear  of  the  house.  Large  herds 
of  deer  were  feeding  or  reposing  upon  its  borders ;  and 
swans  were  sailing  majestically  upon  its  bosom.  As  I 
contemplated  the  venerable  old  mansion,  I  called  to  mind 
Falstaff's  encomium  on  Justice  Shallow's  abode,  and  the 
affected  indifference  and  real  vanity  of  the  latter : 

*'Falstaff.    You  have  a  goodly  dwelling  and  a  rich. 
Shallow.    Barren,  barren,  barren  ;  beggars  all,  beggars  all,  Sir  John  : — 
marry,  good  air." 

What  may  have  been  the  joviality  of  the  old  mansion 


380  THE  SKETCHBOOK. 

in  tlie  days  of  Shakspeare,  it  had  now  an  air  of  stillness 
and  solitude.  The  great  iron  gateway  that  opened  into 
the  courtyard  was  locked ;  there  was  no  show  of  servants 
bustling  about  the  place ;  the  deer  gazed  quietly  at  me  as 
I  passed,  being  no  longer  harried  by  the  moss-troopers 
of  Stratford.  The  only  sign  of  domestic  life  that  I  met 
with  was  a  white  cat,  stealing  with  wary  look  and 
stealthy  pace  towards  the  stables,  as  if  on  some  nefari- 
ous expedition.  I  must  not  omit  to  mention  the  carcass 
of  a  scoundrel  crow  which  I  saw  suspended  against  the 
barn  wall,  as  it  shows  that  the  Lucys  still  inherit  that 
lordly  abhorrence  of  poachers,  and  maintain  that  rigor- 
ous exercise  of  territorial  power  which  was  so  strenu- 
ously manifested  in  the  case  of  the  bard. 

After  prowling  about  for  some  time,  I  at  length  found 
my  way  to  a  lateral  portal,  which  was  the  every-day  en- 
trance to  the  mansion.  I  was  courteously  received  by  a 
worthy  old  housekeeper,  who,  with  the  civility  and  com- 
municativeness of  her  order,  showed  me  the  interior  of 
the  house.  The  greater  part  has  undergone  alterations, 
and  been  adapted  to  modern  tastes  and  modes  of  living : 
there  is  a  fine  old  oaken  staircase ;  and  the  great  hall, 
that  noble  feature  in  an  ancient  manor-house,  still  re- 
tains much  of  the  appearance  it  must  have  had  in  the 
days  of  Shakspeare.  The  ceiling  is  arched  and  lofty; 
and  at  one  end  is  a  gallery  in  which  stands  an  organ. 
The  weapons  and  trophies  of  the  chase,  which  formerly 
adorned  the  hall  of  a  country  gentleman,  have  made  way 


8TBA  TFORD-OJSr-A  VON.  381 

for  family  portraits.  There  is  a  wide  hospitable  fire- 
place, calculated  for  an  ample  old-fashioned  wood  fire, 
formerly  the  rallying-place  of  winter  festivity.  On  the 
opposite  side  of  the  hall  is  the  huge  Gothic  bow-window, 
with  stone  shafts,  which  looks  out  upon  the  courtyard. 
Here  are  emblazoned  in  stained  glass  the  armorial  bear- 
ings of  the  Lucy  family  for  many  generations,  some  being 
dated  in  1558.  I  was  delighted  to  observe  in  the  quar- 
terings  the  three  white  luces,  by  which  the  character  of  Sir 
Thomas  was  first  identified  with  that  of  Justice  Shallow. 
They  are  mentioned  in  the  first  scene  of  the  Merry  Wives 
of  Windsor,  where  the  Justice  is  in  a  rage  with  Falstaff 
for  having  "  beaten  his  men,  killed  his  deer,  and  broken 
into  his  lodge."  The  poet  had  no  doubt  the  offences  of 
himself  and  his  comrades  in  mind  at  the  time,  and  we 
may  suppose  the  family  pride  and  vindictive  threats  of 
the  puissant  Shallow  to  be  a  caricature  of  the  pompous 
indignation  of  Sir  Thomas. 

'*  Shallow.  Sir  Hugh,  persuade  me  not :  I  will  make  a  Star-Chamber 
matter  of  it ;  if  he  were  twenty  John  Falstaffs,  he  shall  not  abuse  Sir 
Robert  Shallow,  Esq. 

Slender.    In  the  county  of  Grloster,  justice  of  peace,  and  coram. 

Shallow.    Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  cusialorum. 

Slender.  Ay,  and  ratalorum  too,  and  a  gentleman  bom,  master  par- 
son ;  who  writes  himself  Armigero  in  any  bill,  warrant,  quittance,  or  ob- 
ligation, Armigero. 

Shallow.  Ay,  that  I  do  ;  and  have  done  any  time  these  three  hundred 
years. 

Slender.     All  his  successors  gone  before  him  have  done't,  and  all  his 


382  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ancestors  that  come  after  him  may  ;  they  may  give  the  dozen  white  Iugm 
in  their  coat.*  *  *  *  * 

Shallow.    The  council  shall  hear  it ;  it  is  a  riot. 

Evans.  It  is  not  meet  the  council  hear  of  a  riot  ;  there  is  no  fear  ol 
Got  in  a  riot  ;  the  council,  hear  you,  shall  desire  to  hear  the  fear  of  Got, 
and  not  to  hear  a  riot ;  take  your  vizaments  in  that. 

Shallow.  Ha  I  o'  my  life,  if  I  were  young  again,  the  sword  should  end 
it!" 


Near  the  window  tlms  emblazoned  hung  a  portrait  by- 
Sir  Peter  Lely,  of  one  of  the  Lucy  family,  a  great  beauty 
of  the  time  of  Charles  the  Second  :  the  old  housekeeper 
shook  her  head  as  she  pointed  to  the  picture,  and  in- 
formed me  that  this  lady  had  been  sadly  addicted  to 
cards,  and  had  gambled  away  a  great  portion  of  the  fam- 
ily estate,  among  which  was  that  part  of  the  park  where 
Shakspeare  and  his  comrades  had  killed  the  deer.  The 
lands  thus  lost  had  not  been  entirely  regained  by  the 
family  even  at  the  present  day.  It  is  but  justice  to  this 
recreant  dame  to  confess  that  she  had  a  surpassingly  fine 
hand  and  arm. 

The  picture  which  most  attracted  my  attention  was  a 
great  painting  oyer  the  fireplace,  containing  likenesses 
of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  and  his  family,  who  inhabited  the 
hall  in  the  latter  part  of  Shakspeare's  lifetime.  I  at  first 
thought  that  it  was  the  vindictive  knight  himself,  but  the 
housekeeper  assured  me  that  it  was  his  son;  the  only 
likeness  extant  of  the  former  being  an  effigy  upon  his 
tomb  in  the  church  of  the  neighboring  hamlet  of  Charle- 


8TBATF0RD-0N-AV0N.  383 

cot."'^  The  picture  gives  a  lively  idea  of  the  costume  and 
manners  of  the  time.  Sir  Thomas  is  dressed  in  ruff  and 
doublet ;  white  shoes  with  roses  in  them ;  and  has  a 
peaked  yellow,  or,  as  Master  Slender  would  say,  "  a  cane- 
colored  beard."  His  lady  is  seated  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  picture,  in  wide  ruff  and  long  stomacher,  and  the 
children  have  a  most  venerable  stiffness  and  formality  of 
dress.  Hounds  and  spaniels  are  mingled  in  the  family 
group  ;  a  hawk  is  seated  on  his  perch  in  the  foreground, 
and  one  of  the  children  holds  a  bow ; — all  intimating  the 
knight's  skill  in  hunting,  hawking,  and  archery — so  indis- 
pensable to  an  accomplished  gentleman  in  those  days.t 

*  This  effigy  is  in  white  marble,  and  represents  the  Knight  in  complete 
armor.  Near  him  lies  the  effigy  of  his  wife,  and  on  her  tomb  is  the  fol- 
lowing inscription ;  which,  if  really  composed  by  her  husband,  places  him 
quite  above  the  intellectual  level  of  Master  Shallow : 

Here  lyeth  the  Lady  Joyce  Lucy  wife  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  of  Charlecot 
in  ye  county  of  Warwick,  Knight,  Daughter  and  heir  of  Thomas  Acton 
of  Sutton  in  ye  county  of  Worcester  Esquire  who  departed  out  of  this 
wretched  world  to  her  heavenly  Mngdom  ye  10  day  of  February  in  ye  years 
of  our  Lord  God  1595  and  of  her  age  60  and  three.  All  the  time  of  her 
lyfe  a  true  and  faythful  servant  of  her  good  God,  never  detected  of  any 
cryrae  or  vice.  In  religion  most  sounde,  in  love  to  her  husband  most 
faythful  and  true.  In  friendship  most  constant;  to  what  in  trust  was 
committed  unto  her  most  secret.  In  wisdom  excelling.  In  governing  of 
her  house,  bringing  up  of  youth  in  ye  fear  of  God  that  did  converse  with 
her  moste  rare  and  singular.  A  great  maintayner  of  hospitality.  Greatly 
esteemed  of  her  betters ;  misliked  of  none  unless  of  the  envyous.  When 
all  is  spoken  that  can  be  saide  a  woman  so  garnished  with  virtue  as  not  to 
be  bettered  and  hardly  to  be  equalled  by  any.  As  shee  lived  most  virtu- 
ously so  shee  died  most  Godly.  Set  downe  by  him  yt  best  did  knowe 
what  hath  byn  written  to  be  true.  Thomas  Lucye. 

f  Bishop  Earle,  speaking  of  the  country  gentleman  of  his  time,  ob- 
serves, *'  his  housekeeping  is  seen  much  in  the  different  families  of  dogs. 


384  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

I  regretted  to  find  that  the  ancient  furniture  of  the 
hall  had  disappeared ;  for  I  had  hoped  to  meet  with  the 
stately  elbow-chair  of  carved  oak,  in  which  the  country- 
squire  of  former  days  was  wont  to  sway  the  sceptre  of 
empire  over  his  rural  domains  ;  and  in  which  it  might  be 
presumed  the  redoubted  Sir  Thomas  sat  enthroned  in 
awful  state  when  the  recreant  Shakspeare  was  brought 
before  him.  As  I  like  to  deck  out  pictures  for  my  own 
entertainment,  I  pleased  myself  with  the  idea  that  this 
very  hall  had  been  the  scene  of  the  unlucky  bard's  exam- 
ination on  the  morning  after  his  captivity  in  the  lodge. 
I  fancied  to  myself  the  rural  potentate,  surrounded  by 
his  body-guard  of  butler,  pages,  and  blue-coated  serving- 
men,  with  their  badges ;  while  the  luckless  culprit  was 
brought  in,  forlorn  and  chopfallen,  in  the  custody  of 
gamekeepers,  huntsmen,  and  whippers-in,  and  followed 
by  a  rabble  rout  of  country  clowns.  I  fancied  bright 
faces  of  curious  housemaids  peeping  from  the  half-opened 
doors ;  while  from  the  gallery  the  fair  daughters  of  the 
knight  leaned  gracefully  forward,  eyeing  the  youthful 


and  serving-men  attendant  on  their  kennels  ;  and  the  deepness  of  their 
throats  is  the  depth  of  his  discourse.  A  hawk  he  esteems  the  tnie  burden 
of  nobility,  and  is  exceedingly  ambitious  to  seem  delighted  with  the  sport, 
and  have  his  fist  gloved  with  his  jesses."  And  Gilpin,  in  his  description 
of  a  Mr.  Hastings,  remarks,  "  he  kept  all  sorts  of  hounds  that  run  buck, 
fox,  hare,  otter,  and  badger  ;  and  had  hawks  of  all  kinds  both  long  and 
short  winged.  His  great  hall  was  commonly  strewed  with  marrow-bones, 
and  full  of  hawk  perches,  hounds,  spaniels,  and  terriers.  On  a  broad 
hearth,  paved  with  brick,  lay  some  of  the  choicest  terriers,  hounds,  and 
soaniels." 


STB  A  TFOBD-  ON- A  YON.  385 

prisoner  with  that  pity  "  that  dwells  in  womanhood." — 
Who  would  have  thought  that  this  poor  varlet,  thus 
trembling  before  the  brief  authority  of  a  country  squire, 
and  the  sport  of  rustic  boors,  was  soon  to  become  the 
delight  of  princes,  the  theme  of  all  tongues  and  ages,  the 
dictator  to  the  human  mind,  and  was  to  confer  immor- 
tality on  his  oppressor  by  a  caricature  and  a  lampoon ! 

I  was  now  invited  by  the  butler  to  walk  into  the  gar- 
den, and  I  felt  inclined  to  visit  the  orchard  and  arbor 
where  the  justice  treated  Sir  John  Falstaff  and  Cousin 
Silence  "  to  a  last  year's  pippin  of  his  own  grafting,  with 
a  dish  of  caraways ; "  but  I  had  already  spent  so  much 
of  the  day  in  my  ramblings  that  I  was  obliged  to  give  up 
any  further  investigations.  When  about  to  take  my  leave 
I  was  gratified  by  the  civil  entreaties  of  the  housekeeper 
and  butler,  that  I  would  take  some  refreshment :  an  in- 
stance of  good  old  hospitality  which,  I  grieve  to  say,  we 
castle-hunters  seldom  meet  with  in  modern  days.  I 
make  no  doubt  it  is  a  virtue  which  the  present  repre- 
sentative of  the  Lucys  inherits  from  his  ancestors ;  for 
Shakspeare,  even  in  his  caricature,  makes  Justice  Shal- 
low importunate  in  this  respect,  as  witness  his  pressing 
instances  to  Falstaff. 

"By  cock  and  pye,  sir,  you  shall  not  away  to-night  *  *  *  I  will  not 
excuse  you ;  you  shall  not  be  excused  ;  excuses  shall  not  be  admitted  ; 
there  is  no  excuse  shall  serve  ;  you  shall  not  be  excused  *  *  * .  Some 
pigeons,  Davy  ;  a  couple  of  short-legged  hens  ;  a  joint  of  mutton ;  and 
any  pretty  little  tiny  kickshaws,  tell  William  Cook." 
25 


386  TEE  SKETCHBOOK 

I  now  bade  a  reluctant  farewell  to  the  old  hall.  My 
mind  had  become  so  completely  possessed  by  the  im- 
aginary scenes  and  characters  connected  with  it,  that  I 
seemed  to  be  actually  living  among  them.  Every  thing 
brought  them  as  it  were  before  my  eyes;  and  as  the 
door  of  the  dining-room  opened,  I  almost  expected  to 
hear  the  feeble  voice  of  Master  Silence  quavering  forth 
his  favorite  ditty : 

"  'Tis  merry  in  hall,  when  beards  wag  aU, 
And  welcome  merry  shrove-tide  I " 

On  returning  to  my  inn,  I  could  not  but  reflect  on  the 
singular  gift  of  the  poet ;  to  be  able  thus  to  spread  the 
magic  of  his  mind  over  the  very  face  of  nature  ;  to  give  to 
things  and  places  a  charm  and  character  not  their  own, 
and  to  turn  this  "working-day  world"  into  a  perfect  fairy 
land.  He  is  indeed  the  true  enchanter,  whose  spell  oper- 
ates, not  upon  the  senses,  but  upon  the  imagination  and 
the  heart.  Under  the  wizard  influence  of  Shakspeare  I 
had  been  walking  all  day  in  a  complete  delusion.  I  had 
surveyed  the  landscape  through  the  prism  of  poetry, 
which  tinged  every  object  with  the  hues  of  the  rainbow. 
I  had  been  surrounded  with  fancied  beings;  with  mere 
airy  nothings,  conjured  up  by  poetic  power ;  yet  which, 
to  me,  had  all  the  charm  of  reality.  I  had  heard  Jaques 
soliloquize  beneath  his  oak :  had  beheld  the  fair  Rosa- 
lind and  her  companion  adventuring  through  the  wood- 
lands; and,  above   all,  had  been  once  more  present  in 


BTBA  TFORD-ON-A  VON,  387 

spirit  with  fat  Jack  Falstaff  and  his  contemporaries,  from 
the  august  Justice  Shallow,  down  to  the  gentle  Master 
Slender  and  the  sweet  Anne  Page.  Ten  thousand  honors 
and  blessings  on  the  bard  who  has  thus  gilded  the  dull 
realities  of  life  with  innocent  illusions ;  who  has  spread 
exquisite  and  unbought  pleasures  in  my  chequered  path ; 
and  beguiled  my  spirit  in  many  a  lonely  hour,  with  all  the 
cordial  and  cheerful  sympathies  of  social  life ! 

As  I  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  Avon  on  my  return,  I 
paused  to  contemplate  the  distant  church  in  which  the 
poet  lies  buried,  and  could  not  but  exult  in  the  maledic- 
tion, which  has  kept  his  ashes  undisturbed  in  its  quiet 
and  hallowed  vaults.  "What  honor  could  his  name  have 
derived  from  being  mingled  in  dusty  companionship  with 
the  epitaphs  and  escutcheons  and  venal  eulogiums  of  a 
titled  multitude  ?  What  would  a  crowded  corner  in 
Westminster  Abbey  have  been,  compared  with  this  rev- 
erend pile,  which  seems  to  stand  in  beautiful  loneliness 
as  his  sole  mausoleum !  The  solicitude  about  the  grave 
may  be  but  the  offspring  of  an  over-wrought  sensibility ; 
but  human  nature  is  made  up  of  foibles  and  prejudices ; 
and  its  best  and  tenderest  affections  are  mingled  with 
these  factitious  feelings.  He  who  has  sought  renown 
about  the  world,  and  has  reaped  a  full  harvest  of  worldly 
favor,  will  find,  after  all,  that  there  is  no  love,  no  admira- 
tion, no  applause,  so  sweet  to  the  soul  as  that  which 
springs  up  in  his  native  place.  It  is  there  that  he  seeks 
to  be  gathered  in  peace  and  honor  among  his  kindred 


388  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  his  early  friends.  And  wlien  the  weary  heart  and 
failing  head  begin  to  warn  him  that  the  evening  of  life 
is  drawing  on,  he  turns  as  fondly  as  does  the  infant  to 
the  mother's  arms,  to  sink  to  sleep  in  the  bosom  of  the 
scene  of  his  childhood. 

How  would  it  have  cheered  the  spirit  of  the  youthful 
bard  when,  wandering  forth  in  disgrace  upon  a  doubtful 
world,  he  cast  back  a  heavy  look  upon  his  paternal  home, 
could  he  have  foreseen  that,  before  many  years,  he  should 
return  to  it  covered  with  renown ;  that  his  name  should 
become  the  boast  and  glory  of  his  native  place  ;  that  his 
ashes  should  be  religiously  guarded  as  its  most  precious 
treasure ;  and  that  its  lessening  spire,  on  which  his  eyes 
were  fixed  in  tearful  contemplation,  should  one  day  be- 
come the  beacon,  towering  amidst  the  gentle  landscape, 
to  guide  the  literary  pilgrim  of  every  nation  to  his  tomb  I 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTEE. 

"  I  appeal  to  any  white  man  if  ever  he  entered  Logan's  cabin  hungry,  and 
he  gave  him  not  to  eat ;  if  ever  he  came  cold  and  naked,  and  he  clothed  him 
not." 

Speech  of  an  Indian  Chief, 

HEKE  is  sometliing  in  the  character  and  habits 
of  the  North  American  savage,  ta^ken  in  connec- 
tion with  the  scenery  over  which  he  is  accus- 
tomed to  range,  its  vast  lakes,  boundless  forests,  majestic 
rivers,  and  trackless  plains,  that  is,  to  my  mind,  wonder- 
fully striking  and  sublime.  He  is  formed  for  the  wilder- 
ness, as  the  Arab  is  for  the  desert.  His  nature  is  stern, 
simple,  and  enduring ;  fitted  to  grapple  with  difficulties, 
and  to  support  privations.  There  seems  but  little  soil  in 
his  heart  for  the  support  of  the  kindly  virtues  ;  and  yet, 
if  we  would  but  take  the  trouble  to  penetrate  through 
that  proud  stoicism  and  habitual  taciturnity,  which  lock 
up  his  character  from  casual  observation,  we  should  find 
him  linked  to  his  fellow-man  of  civilized  life  by  more  of 
those  sympathies  and  affections  than  are  usually  ascribed 
to  him. 

It  has  been  the  lot  of  the  unfortunate  aborigines  of 
America,  in  the  early  periods  of  colonization,  to  be  doubly 


390  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

wronged  by  tlie  white  men.  They  have  been  dispos- 
sessed of  their  hereditary  possessions  by  mercenary  and 
frequently  wanton  warfare :  and  their  characters  have 
been  traduced  by  bigoted  and  interested  writers.  The 
colonist  often  treated  them  like  beasts  of  the  forest; 
and  the  author  has  endeavored  to  justify  him  in  his 
outrages.  The  former  found  it  easier  to  exterminate 
than  to  civilize  ;  the  latter  to  vilify  than  to  discriminate. 
The  appellations  of  savage  and  pagan  were  deemed  suffi- 
cient to  sanction  the  hostilities  of  both ;  and  thus  the 
poor  wanderers  of  the  forest  were  persecuted  and  de- 
famed, not  because  they  were  guilty,  but  because  they 
were  ignorant. 

The  rights  of  the  savage  have  seldom  been  properly 
appreciated  or  respected  by  the  white  man.  In  peace  he 
has  too  often  been  the  dupe  of  artful  traffic;  in  war  he 
has  been  regarded  as  a  ferocious  animal,  whose  life  or 
death  was  a  question  of  mere  precaution  and  conven- 
ience. Man  is  cruelly  wasteful  of  life  when  his  own 
safety  is  endangered,  and  he  is  sheltered  by  impunity; 
and  little  mercy  is  to  be  expected  from  him,  when  he  feels 
the  sting  of  the  reptile  and  is  conscious  of  the  power  to 
destroy. 

The  same  prejudices,  which  were  indulged  thus  early, 
exist  in  common  circulation  at  the  present  day.  Certain 
learned  societies  have,  it  is  true,  with  laudable  diligence, 
endeavored  to  investigate  and  record  the  real  characters 
and  manners  of  the  Indian  tribes  ;  the  American  govern- 


TBAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHABACTER.  391 

ment,  too,  has  wisely  and  humanely  exerted  itself  to  in- 
culcate a  friendly  and  forbearing  spirit  towards  them,  and 
to  protect  them  from  fraud  and  injustice."^  The  current 
opinion  of  the  Indian  character,  however,  is  too  apt  to  be 
formed  from  the  miserable  hordes  which  infest  the  fron- 
tiers, and  hang  on  the  skirts  of  the  settlements.  These 
are  too  commonly  composed  of  degenerate  beings,  cor- 
rupted and  enfeebled  by  the  vices  of  society,  without 
being  benefited  by  its  civilization.  That  proud  indepen- 
dence, which  formed  the  main  pillar  of  savage  virtue,  has 
been  shaken  down,  and  the  whole  moral  fabric  lies  in 
ruins.  Their  spirits  are  humiliated  and  debased  by  a 
sense  of  inferiority,  and  their  native  courage  cowed  and 
daunted  by  the  superior  knowledge  and  power  of  their 
enlightened  neighbors.  Society  has  advanced  upon  them 
like  one  of  those  withering  airs  that  will  sometimes  breed 
desolation  over  a  whole  region  of  fertility.  It  has  ener- 
vated their  strength,  multiplied  their  diseases,  and  super- 
induced upon  their  original  barbarity  the  low  vices  of 
artificial  life.  It  has  given  them  a  thousand  superfluous 
wants,  whilst  it  has  diminished  their  means  of  mere  ex- 
istence.   It  has  driven  before  it  the  animals  of  the  chase. 


*  The  American  government  has  been  indefatigable  in  its  exertions  to 
ameliorate  the  situation  of  the  Indians,  and  to  introduce  among  them  the 
arts  of  civilization,  and  civil  and  religious  knowledge.  To  protect  them 
from  the  frauds  of  the  white  traders,  no  purchase  of  land  from  them  by- 
individuals  is  permitted  ;  nor  is  any  person  allowed  to  receive  lands  from 
them  ac  a  present,  without  the  express  sanction  of  government.  These 
precautions  are  strictly  enforced. 


392  TSE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

who  fly  from  the  sound  of  the  axe  and  the  smoke  of  the 
settlement,  and  seek  refuge  in  the  depths  of  remoter  for- 
ests and  yet  untrodden  wilds.  Thus  do  we  too  often  find 
the  Indians  on  our  frontiers  to  be  the  mere  wrecks  and 
remnants  of  once  powerful  tribes,  who  have  lingered  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  settlements,  and  sunk  into  precarious 
and  vagabond  existence.  Poverty,  repining  and  hopeless 
poverty,  a  canker  of  the  mind  unknown  in  savage  life, 
corrodes  their  spirits,  and  blights  every  free  and  noble 
quality  of  their  natures.  They  become  drunken,  indo- 
lent, feeble,  thievish,  and  pusillanimous.  They  loiter 
like  vagrants  about  the  settlements,  among  spacious 
dwellings  replete  with  elaborate  comforts,  which  only 
render  them  sensible  of  the  comparative  wretchedness 
of  their  own  condition.  Luxury  spreads  its  ample  board 
before  their  eyes ;  but  they  are  excluded  from  the  ban- 
quet. Plenty  revels  over  the  fields  ;  but  they  are  starv- 
ing in  the  midst  of  its  abundance  :  the  whole  wilderness 
has  blossomed  into  a  garden ;  but  they  feel  as  reptiles 
that  infest  it. 

How  different  was  their  state  while  yet  the  undisputed 
lords  of  the  soil !  Their  wants  were  few,  and  the  means 
of  gratification  within  their  reach.  They  saw  every  one 
around  them  sharing  the  same  lot,  enduring  the  same 
hardships,  feeding  on  the  same  aliments,  arrayed  in  the 
same  rude  garments.  No  roof  then  rose,  but  was  open 
to  the  homeless  stranger ;  no  smoke  curled  among  the 
trees,  but  he  was  welcome  to  sit  down  by  its  fire,  and 


TBAITS  OF  INDIAN  GHABACTER.  393 

join  the  hunter  in  his  repast.  "  For,"  says  an  old  his- 
torian of  New  England,  "  their  life  is  so  void  of  care,  and 
they  are  so  loving  also,  that  they  make  use  of  those 
things  they  enjoy  as  common  goods,  and  are  therein 
so  compassionate,  that  rather  than  one  should  starve 
through  want,  they  would  starve  all;  thus  they  pass 
their  time  merrily,  not  regarding  our  pomp,  but  are  bet- 
ter content  with  their  own,  which  some  men  esteem  so 
meanly  of."  Such  were  the  Indians,  whilst  in  the  pride 
and  energy  of  their  primitive  natures :  they  resembled 
those  wild  plants,  which  thrive  best  in  the  shades  of  the 
forest,  but  shrink  from  the  hand  of  cultivation,  and  perish 
beneath  the  influence  of  the  sun. 

In  discussing  the  savage  character,  writers  have  been 
too  prone  to  indulge  in  vulgar  prejudice  and  passionate 
exaggeration,  instead  of  the  candid  temper  of  true  phil- 
osophy. They  have  not  sufficiently  considered  the  pe- 
culiar circumstances  in  which  the  Indians  have  been 
placed,  and  the  peculiar  principles  under  which  they 
have  been  educated.  No  being  acts  more  rigidly  from 
rule  than  the  Indian.  His  whole  conduct  is  regulated 
according  to  some  general  maxims  early  implanted  in  his 
mind.  The  moral  laws  that  govern  him  are,  to  be  sure, 
but  few ;  but  then  he  conforms  to  them  all ; — the  white 
man  abounds  in  laws  of  religion,  morals,  and  manners, 
but  how  many  does  he  violate  ? 

A  frequent  ground  of  accusation  against  the  Indians  is 
their  disregard  of  treaties,  and  the  treachery  and  wan- 


394  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

tonness  witli  wliicli,  in  time  of  apparent  peace,  they  will 
suddenly  fly  to  hostilities.  The  intercourse  of  the  white 
men  with  the  Indians,  however,  is  too  apt  to  be  cold,  dis- 
trustful, oppressive,  and  insulting.  They  seldom  treat 
them  with  that  confidence  and  frankness  which  are  in- 
dispensable to  real  friendship ;  nor  is  sufficient  caution 
observed  not  to  offend  against  those  feelings  of  pride  or 
superstition,  which  often  prompts  the  Indian  to  hostility 
quicker  than  mere  considerations  of  interest.  The  soli- 
tary savage  feels  silently,  but  acutely.  His  sensibilities 
are  not  diffused  over  so  wide  a  surface  as  those  of  the 
white  man ;  but  they  run  in  steadier  and  deeper  chan- 
nels. His  pride,  his  affections,  his  superstitions,  are  all 
directed  towards  fewer  objects ;  but  the  wounds  inflicted 
on  them  are  proportionably  severe,  and  furnish  motives 
of  hostility  which  we  cannot  sufficiently  appreciate. 
Where  a  community  is  also  limited  in  number,  and 
iorms  one  great  patriarchal  family,  as  in  an  Indian  tribe, 
the  injury  of  an  individual  is  the  injury  of  the  whole; 
and  the  sentiment  of  vengeance  is  almost  instantaneously 
diffused.  One  council  fire  is  sufficient  for  the  discussion 
and  arrangement  of  a  plan  of  hostilities.  Here  all  the 
fighting  men  and  sages  assemble.  Eloquence  and  super- 
stition combine  to  inflame  the  minds  of  the  warriors. 
The  orator  awakens  their  martial  ardor,  and  they  are 
wrought  up  to  a  kind  of  religious  desperation,  by  the 
visions  of  the  prophet  and  the  dreamer. 

An  instance  of  one  of  those  sudden  exasperations,  aris- 


TBAIT8  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER.  395 

ing  from  a  motive  peculiar  to  the  Indian  character,  is  ex- 
tant in  an  old  record  of  the  early  settlement  of  Massachu- 
setts. The  planters  of  Plymouth  had  defaced  the  monu- 
ments of  the  dead  at  Passonagessit,  and  had  plundered 
the  grave  of  the  Sachem's  mother  of  some  skins  with 
which  it  had  been  decorated.  The  Indians  are  remark- 
able for  the  reverence  which  they  entertain  for  the  sepul- 
chres of  their  kindred.  Tribes  that  have  passed  gener- 
ations exiled  from  the  abodes  of  their  ancestors,  when  by 
chance  they  have  been  travelling  in  the  vicinity,  have 
been  known  to  turn  aside  from  the  highway,  and,  guided 
by  wonderfully  accurate  tradition,  have  crossed  the  coun- 
try for  miles  to  some  tumulus,  buried  perhaps  in  woods, 
where  the  bones  of  their  tribe  were  anciently  deposited ; 
and  there  have  passed  hours  in  silent  meditation.  In- 
fluenced by  this  sublime  and  holy  feeling,  the  Sachem, 
whose  mother's  tomb  had  been  violated,  gathered  his 
men  together,  and  addressed  them  in  the  following  beau- 
tifully simple  and  pathetic  harangue  ;  a  curious  specimen 
of  Indian  eloquence,  and  an  affecting  instance  of  filial 
piety  in  a  savage. 

"  When  last  the  glorious  light  of  all  the  sky  was  under- 
neath this  globe,  and  birds  grew  silent,  I  began  to  settle, 
as  my  custom  is,  to  take  repose.  Before  mine  eyes  were 
fast  closed,  methought  I  saw  a  vision,  at  which  my  spirit 
was  much  troubled ;  and  trembling  at  that  doleful  sight, 
a  spirit  cried  aloud,  '  Behold,  my  son,  whom  I  have  cher- 
ished, see  the  breasts  that  gave  thee  suck,  the  hands  that 


396  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

lapped  thee  warm,  and  fed  thee  oft.  Canst  thou  forget 
to  take  revenge  of  those  wild  people  who  have  defaced 
my  monument  in  a  despiteful  manner,  disdaining  our  an- 
tiquities and  honorable  customs?  See,  now,  the  Sachem's 
grave  lies  like  the  common  people,  defaced  by  an  ignoble 
race.  Thy  mother  doth  complain,  and  implores  thy  aid 
against  this  thievish  people,  who  have  newly  intruded  on 
our  land.  If  this  be  suffered,  I  shall  not  rest  quiet  in  my 
everlasting  habitation.'  This  said,  the  spirit  vanished, 
and  I,  all  in  a  sweat,  not  able  scarce  to  speak,  began  to 
get  some  strength,  and  recollect  my  spirits  that  were 
fled,  and  determined  to  demand  your  counsel  and  assist- 
ance." 

I  have  adduced  this  anecdote  at  some  length,  as  it 
tends  to  show  how  these  sudden  acts  of  hostility,  which 
have  been  attributed  to  caprice  and  perfidy,  may  often 
arise  from  deep  and  generous  motives,  which  our  inatten- 
tion to  Indian  character  and  customs  prevents  our  prop- 
erly appreciating. 

Another  ground  of  violent  outcry  against  the  Indians  is 
their  barbarity  to  the  vanquished.  This  had  its  origin 
partly  in  policy  and  partly  in  superstition.  The  tribes, 
though  sometimes  called  nations,  were  never  so  formi- 
dable in  their  numbers,  but  that  the  loss  of  several  war- 
riors was  sensibly  felt;  this  was  particularly  the  case 
when  they  had  frequently  been  engaged  in  warfare ;  and 
many  an  instance  occurs  in  Indian  history,  where  a  tribe, 
that  had  long  been  formidable  to  its  neighbors,  has  been 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  GHABAGTEB.  397 

broken  up  and  driven  away,  by  the  capture  and  massacre 
of  its  principal  fighting  men.  There  was  a  strong  temp- 
tation, therefore,  to  the  victor  to  be  merciless;  not  so 
much  to  gratify  any  cruel  revenge,  as  to  provide  for 
future  security.  The  Indians  had  also  the  superstitious 
belief,  frequent  among  barbarous  nations,  and  prevalent 
also  among  the  ancients,  that  the  manes  of  their  friends 
who  had  fallen  in  battle  were  soothed  by  the  blood  of 
the  captives.  The  prisoners,  however,  who  are  not  thus 
sacrificed,  are  adopted  into  their  families  in  the  place  of 
the  slain,  and  are  treated  with  the  confidence  and  affec- 
tion of  relatives  and  friends ;  nay,  so  hospitable  and  ten- 
der is  their  entertainment,  that  when  the  alternative  is 
offered  them,  they  will  often  prefer  to  remain  with  their 
adopted  brethren,  rather  than  return  to  the  home  and 
the  friends  of  their  youth. 

The  cruelty  of  the  Indians  towards  their  prisoners  has 
been  heightened  since  the  colonization  of  the  whites. 
What  was  formerly  a  compliance  with  policy  and  super- 
stition, has  been  exasperated  into  a  gratification  of  ven- 
geance. They  cannot  but  be  sensible  that  the  white  men 
are  the  usurpers  of  their  ancient  dominion,  the  cause  of 
their  degradation,  and  the  gradual  destroyers  of  their 
race.  They  go  forth  to  battle,  smarting  with  injuries 
and  indignities  which  they  have  individually  suffered, 
and  they  are  driven  to  madness  and  despair  by  the 
wide-spreading  desolation,  and  the  overwhelming  ruin 
of  European  warfare.     The  whites  have   too  frequently 


398  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

set  tliem  an  example  of  violence,  by  burning  tbeir  vil-' 
lages,  and  laying  waste  their  slender  means  of  subsist- 
ence :  and  yet  they  wonder  that  savages  do  not  show 
moderation  and  magnanimity  towards  those  who  have 
left  them  nothing  but  mere  existence  and  wretchedness. 

We  stigmatize  the  Indians,  also,  as  cowardly  and 
treacherous,  because  they  use  stratagem  in  warfare,  in 
preference  to  open  force ;  but  in  this  they  are  fully  jus- 
tified by  their  rude  code  of  honor.  They  are  early 
taught  that  stratagem  is  praiseworthy ;  the  bravest  war- 
rior thinks  it  no  disgrace  to  lurk  in  silence,  and  take 
every  advantage  of  his  foe  :  he  triumphs  in  the  superior 
craft  and  sagacity  by  which  he  has  been  enabled  to  sur- 
prise and  destroy  an  enemy.  Indeed,  man  is  naturally 
more  prone  to  subtilty  than  open  valor,  owing  to  his 
physical  weakness  in  comparison  with  other  animals. 
They  are  endowed  with  natural  weapons  of  defence : 
with  horns,  with  tusks,  with  hoofs,  and  talons;  but  man 
has  to  depend  on  his  superior  sagacity.  In  all  his  en- 
counters with  these,  his  proper  enemies,  he  resorts  to 
stratagem ;  and  when  he  perversely  turns  his  hostility 
against  his  fellow-man,  he  at  first  continues  the  same 
subtle  mode  of  warfare. 

The  natural  principle  of  war  is  to  do  the  most  harm  to 
our  enemy  with  the  least  harm  to  ourselves ;  and  this  of 
course  is  to  be  effected  by  stratagem.  That  chivalrous 
courage  which  induces  us  to  despise  the  suggestions  of 
prudence,  and  to  rush  in  the  face  of  certain  danger,  is  the 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  GHARACTER.  399 

offspring  of  society,  and  produced  by  education.  It  is 
honorable,  because  it  is  in  fact  tlie  triumph  of  lofty  sen- 
timent over  an  instinctive  repugnance  to  pain,  and  over 
those  yearnings  after  personal  ease  and  security,  which 
society  has  condemned  as  ignoble.  It  is  kept  alive  by 
pride  and  the  fear  of  shame ;  and  thus  the  dread  of  real 
evil  is  overcome  by  the  superior  dread  of  an  evil  which 
exists  but  in  the  imagination.  It  has  been  cherished  and 
stimulated  also  by  various  means.  It  has  been  the  theme 
of  spirit-stirring  song  and  chivalrous  story.  The  poet 
and  minstrel  have  delighted  to  shed  round  it  the  splen- 
dors of  fiction ;  and  even  the  historian  has  forgotten  the 
sober  gravity  of  narration,  and  broken  forth  into  enthu- 
siasm and  rhapsody  in  its  praise.  Triumphs  and  gor- 
geous pageants  have  been  its  reward :  monuments,  on 
which  art  has  exhausted  its  skill,  and  opulence  its  treas- 
ures, have  been  erected  to  perpetuate  a  nation's  gratitude 
and  admiration.  Thus  artificially  excited,  courage  has 
risen  to  an  extraordinary  and  factitious  degree  of  hero- 
ism :  and  arrayed  in  all  the  glorious  "pomp  and  circum- 
stance of  war,"  this  turbulent  quality  has  even  been  able 
to  eclipse  many  of  those  quiet,  but  invaluable  virtues, 
which  silently  ennoble  the  human  character,  and  swell 
the  tide  of  human  happiness. 

But  if  courage  intrinsically  consists  in  the  defiance  of 
danger  and  pain,  the  life  of  the  Indian  is  a  continual  ex- 
hibition of  it.  He  lives  in  a  state  of  perpetual  hostility 
and  risk.     Peril  and  adventure  are  congenial  to  his  na- 


400  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ture ;  or  rather  seem  necessary  to  arouse  his  faculties  and 
to  give  an  interest  to  his  existence.  Surrounded  by  hos- 
tile tribes,  whose  mode  of  warfare  is  by  ambush  and  sur- 
prisal,  he  is  always  prepared  for  fight,  and  lives  with  his 
weapons  in  his  hands.  As  the  ship  careers  in  fearful  sin- 
gleness through  the  solitudes  of  ocean ; — as  the  bird  min- 
gles among  clouds  and  storms,  and  wings  its  way,  a  mere 
speck,  across  the  pathless  fields  of  air ; — so  the  Indian 
holds  his  course,  silent,  solitary,  but  undaunted,  through 
the  boundless  bosom  of  the  wilderness.  His  expeditions 
may  vie  in  distance  and  danger  with  the  pilgrimage  of 
the  devotee,  or  the  crusade  of  the  knight-errant.  He 
traverses  vast  forests,  exposed  to  the  hazards  of  lonely 
sickness,  of  lurking  enemies,  and  pining  famine.  Stormy 
lakes,  those  great  inland  seas,  are  no  obstacles  to  his 
wanderings  :  in  his  light  canoe  of  bark  he  sports,  like  a 
feather,  on  their  waves,  and  darts,  with  the  swiftness  of 
an  arrow,  down  the  roaring  rapids  of  the  rivers.  His 
very  subsistence  is  snatched  from  the  midst  of  toil  and 
peril.  He  gains  his  food  by  the  hardships  and  dangers 
of  the  chase  :  he  wraps  himself  in  the  spoils  of  the  bear, 
the  panther,  and  the  buffalo,  and  sleeps  among  the  thun- 
ders of  the  cataract. 

No  hero  of  ancient  or  modern  days  can  surpass  the  In- 
dian in  his  lofty  contempt  of  death,  and  the  fortitude 
with  which  he  sustains  its  cruellest  infliction.  Indeed  we 
here  behold  him  rising  superior  to  the  white  man,  in 
consequence  of  his  peculiar  education.    The  latter  rushes 


TBAIT8  OF  INDIAN  GHARACTEIt.  401 

to  glorious  death  at  the  cannon's  mouth ;  the  former 
calmly  contemplates  its  approach,  and  triumphantly  en- 
dures it,  amidst  the  varied  torments  of  surrounding  foes 
and  the  protracted  agonies  of  fire.  He  even  takes  a 
pride  in  taunting  his  persecutors,  and  provoking  their  in- 
genuity of  torture ;  and  as  the  devouring  flames  prey  on 
his  very  vitals,  and  the  flesh  shrinks  from  the  sinews,  he 
raises  his  last  song  of  triumph,  breathing  the  defiance  of 
an  unconquered  heart,  and  invoking  the  spirits  of  his 
fathers  to  witness  that  he  dies  without  a  groan. 

Notwithstanding  the  obloquy  with  which  the  early  his- 
torians have  overshadowed  the  characters  of  the  unfor- 
tunate natives,  some  bright  gleams  occasionally  break 
through,  which  throw  a  degree  of  melancholy  lustre  on 
their  memories.  Facts  are  occasionally  to  be  met  with  in 
the  rude  annals  of  the  eastern  provinces,  which,  though 
recorded  with  the  coloring  of  prejudice  and  bigotry,  yet 
speak  for  themselves  ;  and  will  be  dwelt  on  with  applause 
and  sympathy,  when  prejudice  shall  have  passed  away. 

In  one  of  the  homely  narratives  of  the  Indian  wars  in 
New  England,  there  is  a  touching  accoiint  of  the  des- 
olation carried  into  the  tribe  of  the  Pequod  Indians. 
Humanity  shrinks  from  the  cold-blooded  detail  of  indis- 
criminate butchery.  In  one  place  we  read  of  the  sur- 
prisal  of  an  Indian  fort  in  the  night,  when  the  wigwams 
were  wrapped  in  flames,  and  the  miserable  inhabitants 
shot  down  and  slain  in  attempting  to  escape,  "  all  being 
despatched  and  ended  in  the  course  of  an  hour."  After 
26 


402  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

a  series  of  similar  transactions,  "  our  soldiers,"  as  the 
historian  piously  observes,  "being  resolved  by  God's 
assistance  to  make  a  final  destruction  of  them,"  the 
unhappy  savages  being  hunted  from  their  homes  and 
fortresses,  and  pursued  with  fire  and  sword,  a  scanty, 
but  gallant  band,  the  sad  remnant  of  the  Pequod  war- 
riors, with  their  wives  and  children,  took  refuge  in  a 
swamp. 

Burning  with  indignation,  and  rendered  sullen  by 
despair ;  with  hearts  bursting  with  grief  at  the  destruc- 
tion of  their  tribe,  and  spirits  galled  and  sore  at  the 
fancied  ignominy  of  their  defeat,  they  refused  to  ask 
their  lives  at  the  hands  of  an  insulting  foe,  and  pre- 
ferred death  to  submission. 

As  the  night  drew  on  they  were  surrounded  in  their 
dismal  retreat,  so  as  to  render  escape  impracticable. 
Thus  situated,  their  enemy  "  plied  them  with  shot  all 
the  time,  by  which  means  many  were  killed  and  buried 
in  the  mire."  In  the  darkness  and  fog  that  preceded  the 
dawn  of  day  some  few  broke  through  the  besiegers  and 
escaped  into  the  woods  :  "  the  rest  were  left  to  the  con- 
querors, of  which  many  were  killed  in  the  swamp,  like 
sullen  dogs  who  would  rather,  in  their  self-willedness 
and  madness,  sit  still  and  be  shot  through,  or  cut  to 
pieces,"  than  implore  for  mercy.  When  the  day  broke 
upon  this  handful  of  forlorn  but  dauntless  spirits,  the 
soldiers,  we  are  told,  entering  the  swamp,  "  saw  several 
heaps  of  them  sitting  close   together,  upon  whom  they 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHABAGTEB.  403 

discharged  their  pieces,  laden  with  ten  or  twelve  pistol 
bullets  at  a  time,  putting  the  muzzles  of  the  pieces  under 
the  boughs,  within  a  few  yards  of  them ;  so  as,  besides 
those  that  were  found  dead,  many  more  were  killed  and 
sunk  into  the  mire,  and  never  were  minded  more  by 
friend  or  foe." 

Can  any  one  read  this  plain  unvarnished  tale,  without 
admiring  the  stern  resolution,  the  unbending  pride,  the 
loftiness  of  spirit,  that  seemed  to  nerve  the  hearts  of 
these  self-taught  heroes,  and  to  raise  them  above  the 
instinctive  feelings  of  human  nature  ?  When  the  Gauls 
laid  waste  the  city  of  Eome,  they  found  the  senators 
clothed  in  their  robes,  and  seated  with  stern  tranquillity 
in  their  curule  chairs;  in  this  manner  they  suffered 
death  without  resistance  or  even  supplication.  Such 
conduct  was,  in  them,  applauded  as  noble  and  magnani- 
mous ;  in  the  hapless  Indian  it  was  reviled  as  obstinate 
and  sullen!  How  truly  are  we  the  dupes  of  show 
and  circumstance !  How  different  is  virtue,  clothed 
in  purple  and  enthroned  in  state,  from  virtue,  naked 
and  destitute,  and  perishing  obscurely  in  a  wilder- 
ness ! 

But  I  forbear  to  dwell  on  these  gloomy  pictures.  The 
eastern  tribes  have  long  since  disappeared ;  the  forests 
that  sheltered  them  have  been  laid  low,  and  scarce  any 
traces  remain  of  them  in  the  thickly-settled  states  of 
New  England,  excepting  here  and  there  the  Indian  name 
of  a  village  or  a  stream.    And  such  must,  sooner  or  later, 


404  THE  SKETCH.BOOK. 

be  the  fate  of  those  other  tribes  which  skirt  the  frontiers, 
and  have  occasionally  been  inveigled  from  their  forests 
to  mingle  in  the  wars  of  white  men.  In  a  little  while, 
and  they  will  go  the  way  that  their  brethren  have  gone 
before.  The  few  hordes  which  still  linger  about  the 
shores  of  Huron  and  Superior,  and  the  tributary  streams 
of  the  Mississippi,  will  share  the  fate  of  those  tribes  that 
once  spread  over  Massachusetts  and  Connecticut,  and 
lorded  it  along  the  proud  banks  of  the  Hudson;  of  that 
gigantic  race  said  to  have  existed  on  the  borders  of  the 
Susquehanna;  and  of  those  various  nations  that  flour- 
ished about  the  Potomac  and  the  Rappahannock,  and 
that  peopled  the  forests  of  the  vast  valley  of  Shenandoah. 
They  will  vanish  like  a  vapor  from  the  face  of  the  earth ; 
their  very  history  will  be  lost  in  forgetfulness ;  and  "the 
places  that  now  know  them  will  know  them  no  more  for 
ever."  Or  if,  perchance,  some  dubious  memorial  of  them 
should  survive,  it  may  be  in  the  romantic  dreams  of  the 
poet,  to  people  in  imagination  his  glades  and  groves,  like 
the  fauns  and  satyrs  and  sylvan  deities  of  antiquity.  But 
should  he  venture  upon  the  dark  story  of  their  wrongs 
and  wretchedness ;  should  he  tell  how  they  were  invaded, 
corrupted,  despoiled,  driven  from  their  native  abodes  and 
the  sepulchres  of  their  fathers,  hunted  like  wild  beasts 
about  the  earth,  and  sent  down  with  violence  and  butch- 
ery to  the  grave,  posterity  will  either  turn  with  horror 
and  incredulity  from  the  tale,  or  blush  with  indignation 
at  the  inhumanity  of  their  forefathers. — "  We  are  driven 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  GHARAGTEB.  405 

back,"  said  an  old  warrior,  "  until  we  can  retreat  no  far- 
ther— our  hatchets  are  broken,  our  bows  are  snapped, 
our  fires  are  nearly  extinguished: — a  little  longer,  and 
the  white  man  will  cease  to  persecute  us — for  we  shall 
cease  to  exist  1 " 


PHILIP    OF    POKANOKET. 

AN  INDIAN  MEMOIR. 

As  monumental  bronze  unchangecl  his  look : 
A  soul  that  pity  touch'd  but  never  shook : 
Train'd  from  his  tree-rock'd  cradle  to  his  bier, 
The  fierce  extremes  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
Impassive— fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear — 
A  stoic  of  the  woods— a  man  without  a  tear. 

Campbell. 

IT  is  to  be  regretted  that  tliose  early  writers, 
who  treated  of  the  discovery  and  settlement  of 
America,  have  not  given  ns  more  particular  and 
candid  accounts  of  the  remarkable  characters  that  flour- 
ished in  savage  life.  The  scanty  anecdotes  which  have 
reached  us  are  full  of  peculiarity  and  interest ;  they  fur- 
nish us  with  nearer  glimpses  of  human  nature,  and  show 
what  man  is  in  a  comparatively  primitive  state,  and  what 
he  owes  to  civilization.  There  is  something  of  the  charm 
of  discovery  in  lighting  upon  these  wild  and  unexplored 
tracts  of  human  nature ;  in  witnessing,  as  it  were,  the 
native  growth  of  moral  sentiment,  and  perceiving  those 
generous  and  romantic  qualities  which  have  been  arti- 

406 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOEBT.  407 

ficially  cultivated  by  society,  vegetating  in  spontaneous 
hardihood  and  rude  magnificence. 

In  civilized  life,  where  the  happiness,  and  indeed  al- 
most the  existence,  of  man  depends  so  much  upon  the 
opinion  of  his  fellow-men,  he  is  constantly  acting  a  stud- 
ied part.  The  bold  and  peculiar  traits  of  native  char- 
acter are  refined  away,  or  softened  down  by  the  levelling 
influence  of  what  is  termed  good-breeding ;  and  he  prac- 
tises so  many  petty  deceptions,  and  affects  so  many  gen- 
erous sentiments,  for  the  purposes  of  popularity,  that  it 
is  difficult  to  distinguish  his  real  from  his  artificial  char- 
acter. The  Indian,  on  the  contrary,  free  from  the  re- 
straints and  refinements  of  polished  life,  and,  in  a  great 
degree,  a  solitary  and  independent  being,  obeys  the  im- 
pulses of  his  inclination  or  the  dictates  of  his  judgment ; 
and  thus  the  attributes  of  his  nature,  being  freely  in- 
dulged, grow  singly  great  and  striking.  Society  is  like  a 
lawn,  where  every  roughness  is  smoothed,  every  bramble 
eradicated,  and  where  the  eye  is  delighted  by  the  smiling 
verdure  of  a  velvet  surface ;  he,  however,  who  would 
study  nature  in  its  wildness  and  variety,  must  plunge 
into  the  forest,  must  explore  the  glen,  must  stem  the 
torrent,  and  dare  the  precipice. 

These  reflections  arose  on  casually  looking  through  a 
volume  of  early  colonial  history,  wherein  are  recorded, 
with  great  bitterness,  the  outrages  of  the  Indians,  and 
their  wars  with  the  settlers  of  New  England.  It  is  pain- 
ful to  perceive  even  from  these  partial  narratives,  how 


408  TBE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  footsteps  of  civilization  may  be  traced  in  the  blood  of 
the  aborigines ;  how  easily  the  colonists  were  moved  to 
hostility  by  the  lust  of  conquest ;  how  merciless  and  ex- 
terminating was  their  warfare.  The  imagination  shrinks 
at  the  idea,  how  many  intellectual  beings  were  hunted 
from  the  earth,  how  many  brave  and  noble  hearts,  of  na- 
ture's sterling  coinage,  were  broken  down  and  trampled 
in  the  dust ! 

Such  was  the  fate  of  Philip  of  Pokanoket,  an  Indian 
warrior,  whose  name  was  once  a  terror  throughout  Mas- 
sachusetts and  Connecticut.  He  was  the  most  distin- 
guished of  a  number  of  contemporary  Sachems  who 
reigned  over  the  Pequods,  the  Narragansets,  the  Wam- 
panoags,  and  the  other  eastern  tribes,  at  the  time  of  the 
first  settlement  of  New  England ;  a  band  of  native  un- 
taught heroes,  who  made  the  most  generous  struggle  of 
which  human  nature  is  capable ;  fighting  to  the  last  gasp 
in  the  cause  of  their  country,  without  a  hope  of  victory 
or  a  thought  of  renown.  Worthy  of  an  age  of  poetry, 
and  fit  subjects  for  local  story  and  romantic  fiction,  they 
have  left  scarcely  any  authentic  traces  on  the  page  of 
history,  but  stalk,  like  gigantic  shadows,  in  the  dim  twi- 
light of  tradition.* 

When  the  pilgrims,  as  the  Plymouth  settlers  are  called 
by  their  descendants,  first  took  refuge  on  the  shores  of 

*  While  correcting  the  proof  sheets  of  this  article,  the  author  is  in- 
formed that  a  celebrated  English  poet  has  nearly  finished  an  heroic  poem 
on  the  story  of  Philip  of  Pokanoket. 


PHILIP  OF  POEANOKET.  409 

the  New  World,  from  the  religious  persecutions  of  the 
Old,  their  situation  was  to  the  last  degree  gloomy  and 
disheartening.  Few  in  number,  and  that  number  rapidly 
perishing  away  through  sickness  and  hardships;  sur- 
rounded by  a  howling  wilderness  and  savage  tribes ;  ex- 
posed to  the  rigors  of  an  almost  arctic  winter,  and  the 
vicissitudes  of  an  ever-shifting  climate  ;  their  minds  were 
filled  with  doleful  forebodings,  and  nothing  preserved 
them  from  sinking  into  despondency  but  the  strong  ex- 
citement of  religious  enthusiasm.  In  this  forlorn  situa- 
tion they  were  visited  by  Massasoit,  chief  Sagamore  of 
the  Wampanoags,  a  powerful  chief,  who  reigned  over  a 
great  extent  of  country.  Instead  of  taking  advantage  of 
the  scanty  number  of  the ,  strangers,  and  expelling  them 
from  his  territories,  into  which  they  had  intruded,  he 
seemed  at  once  to  conceive  for  them  a  generous  friend- 
ship, and  extended  towards  them  the  rites  of  primitive 
hospitality.  He  came  early  in  the  spring  to  their  settle- 
ment of  New  Plymouth,  attended  by  a  mere  handful  of 
followers,  entered  into  a  solemn  league  of  peace  and 
amity ;  sold  them  a  portion  of  the  soil,  and  promised  to 
secure  for  them  the  good-will  of  his  savage  allies.  What- 
ever may  be  said  of  Indian  perfidy,  it  is  certain  that  the 
integrity  and  good  faith  of  Massasoit  have  never  been  im- 
peached. He  continued  a  firm  and  magnanimous  friend 
of  the  white  men ;  suffering  them  to  extend  their  posses- 
sions, and  to  strengthen  themselves  in  the  land ;  and  be- 
traying no  jealousy  of  their  increasing  power  and  pros- 


410  THE  8EETGH-B00K, 

perity.  Shortly  before  his  death  he  came  once  more  to 
New  Plymouth,  with  his  son  Alexander,  for  the  purpose 
of  renewing  the  covenant  of  peace,  and  of  securing  it  to 
his  posterity. 

At  this  conference  he  endeavored  to  protect  the  reli- 
gion of  his  forefathers  from  the  encroaching  zeal  of  the 
missionaries ;  and  stipulated  that  no  further  attempt 
should  be  made  to  draw  off  his  people  from  their  ancient 
faith;  but,  finding  the  English  obstinately  opposed  to 
any  such  condition,  he  mildly  relinquished  the  demand. 
Almost  the  last  act  of  his  life  was  to  bring  his  two  sons, 
Alexander  and  Philip  (as  they  had  been  named  by  the 
English),  to  the  residence  of  a  principal  settler,  recom- 
mending mutual  kindness  and  confidence ;  and  entreating 
that  the  same  love  and  amity  which  had  existed  between 
the  white  men  and  himself  might  be  continued  afterwards 
with  his  children.  The  good  old  Sachem  died  in  peace, 
and  was  happily  gathered  to  his  fathers  before  sorrow 
came  upon  his  tribe ;  his  children  remained  behind  to 
experience  the  ingratitude  of  white  men. 

His  eldest  son,  Alexander,  succeeded  him.  He  was  of 
a  quick  and  impetuous  temper,  and  proudly  tenacious  of 
his  hereditary  rights  and  dignity.  The  intrusive  policy 
and  dictatorial  conduct  of  the  strangers  excited  his  in- 
dignation ;  and  he  beheld  with  uneasiness  their  exter- 
minating wars  with  the  neighboring  tribes.  He  was 
doomed  soon  to  incur  their  hostility,  being  accused  of 
plotting  with  the  Narragansets  to  rise  against  the  Eng- 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  411 

lish  and  drive  them  from  the  land.  It  is  impossible  to 
say  whether  this  accusation  was  warranted  by  facts  or 
was  grounded  on  mere  suspicion.  It  is  evident,  however, 
by  the  violent  and  overbearing  measures  of  the  settlers, 
that  they  had  by  this  time  begun  to  feel  conscious  of  the 
rapid  increase  of  their  power,  and  to  grow  harsh  and 
inconsiderate  in  their  treatment  of  the  natives.  They 
despatched  an  armed  force  to  seize  upon  Alexander,  and 
to  bring  him  before  their  courts.  He  was  traced  to  his 
woodland  haunts,  and  surprised  at  a  hunting  house, 
where  he  was  reposing  with  a  band  of  his  followers,  un- 
armed, after  the  toils  of  the  chase.  The  suddenness  of 
his  arrest,  and  the  outrage  offered  to  his  sovereign  dig- 
nity, so  preyed  upon  the  irascible  feelings  of  this  proud 
savage,  as  to  throw  him  into  a  raging  fever.  He  was 
permitted  to  return  home,  on  condition  of  sending  his 
son  as  a  pledge  for  his  reappearance ;  but  the  blow  he 
had  received  was  fatal,  and  before  he  had  reached  his 
home  he  fell  a  victim  to  the  agonies  of  a  wounded  spirit. 

The  successor  of  Alexander  was  Metacomet,  or  King 
Philip,  as  he  was  called  by  the  settlers,  on  account  of  his 
lofty  spirit  and  ambitious  temper.  These,  together  with 
his  well-known  energy  and  enterprise,  had  rendered  him 
an  object  of  great  jealousy  and  apprehension,  and  he  was 
accused  of  having  always  cherished  a  secret  and  impla- 
cable hostility  towards  the  whites.  Such  may  very  prob- 
ably, and  very  naturally,  have  been  the  case.  He  con- 
sidered them  as  originally  but  mere  intruders  into  the 


412  THE  SKETCHBOOK 

country,  who  had  presumed  upon  indulgence,  and  were 
extending  an  influence  baneful  to  savage  life.  He  saw 
the  whole  race  of  his  countrymen  melting  before  them 
from  the  face  of  the  earth  ;  their  territories  slipping  from 
their  hands,  and  their  tribes  becoming  feeble,  scattered 
and  dependent.  It  may  be  said  that  the  soil  was  origi- 
nally purchased  by  the  settlers ;  but  who  does  not  know 
the  nature  of  Indian  purchases,  in  the  early  periods  of 
colonization  ?  The  Europeans  always  made  thrifty  bar- 
gains through  their  superior  adroitness  in  traffic;  and 
they  gained  vast  accessions  of  territory  by  easily  pro- 
voked hostilities.  An  uncultivated  savage  is  never  a  nice 
inquirer  into  the  refinements  of  law,  by  which  an  injury 
may  be  gradually  and  legally  inflicted.  Leading  facts  are 
all  by  which  he  judges ;  and  it  was  enough  for  Philip  to 
know  that  before  the  intrusion  of  the  Europeans  his 
countrymen  were  lords  of  the  soil,  and  that  now  they 
were  becoming  vagabonds  in  the  land  of  their  fathers. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  his  feelings  of  general 
hostility,  and  his  particular  indignation  at  the  treatment 
of  his  brother,  he  suppressed  them  for  the  present,  re- 
newed the  contract  with  the  settlers,  and  resided  peacea- 
bly for  many  years  at  Pokanoket,  or,  as  it  was  called  by 
the  English,  Mount  Hope,^  the  ancient  seat  of  dominion 
of  his  tribe.  Suspicions,  however,  which  were  at  first 
but  vague  and  indefinite,  began  to  acquire  form  and  sub- 

*  Now  Bristol,  Rhode  Island. 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  413 

stance ;  and  he  was  at  length  charged  with  attempting  to 
instigate  the  various  Eastern  tribes  to  rise  at  once,  and, 
by  a  simultaneous  effort,  to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  their 
oppressors.  It  is  difficult  at  this  distant  period  to  assign 
the  proper  credit  due  to  these  early  accusations  against 
the  Indians.  There  was  a  proneness  to  suspicion,  and 
an  aptness  to  acts  of  violence,  on  the  part  of  the  whites, 
that  gave  weight  and  importance  to  every  idle  tale.  In- 
formers abounded  where  talebearing  met  with  counte- 
nance and  reward ;  and  the  sword  was  readily  unsheathed 
when  its  success  was  certain,  and  it  carved  out  empire. 

The  only  positive  evidence  on  record  against  Philip  is 
the  accusation  of  one  Sausaman,  a  renegado  Indian, 
whose  natural  cunning  had  been  quickened  by  a  partial 
education  which  he  had  received  among  the  settlers. 
He  changed  his  faith  and  his  allegiance  two  or  three 
times,  with  a  facility  that  evinced  the  looseness  of  his 
principles.  He  had  acted  for  some  time  as  Philip's  con- 
fidential secretary  and  counsellor,  and  had  enjoyed  his 
bounty  and  protection.  Finding,  however,  that  the  clouds 
of  adversity  were  gathering  round  his  patron,  he  aban- 
doned his  service  and  went  over  to  the  whites ;  and,  in 
order  to  gain  their  favor,  charged  his  former  benefactor 
with  plotting  against  their  safety.  A  rigorous  investiga- 
tion took  place.  Philip  and  several  of  his  subjects  sub- 
mitted to  be  examined,  but  nothing  was  proved  against 
them.  The  settlers,  however,  had  now  gone  too  far  to 
retract ;  they  had  previously  determined  that  Philip  was 


414  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

a  dangerous  neiglibor;  they  had  publicly  evinced  their 
distrust;  and  had  done  enough  to  insure  his  hostility; 
according,  therefore,  to  the  usual  mode  of  reasoning  in 
these  cases,  his  destruction  had  become  necessary  to 
their  security.  Sausaman,  the  treacherous  informer,  was 
shortly  afterwards  found  dead,  in  a  pond,  having  fallen  a 
victim  to  the  vengeance  of  his  tribe.  Three  Indians,  one 
of  whom  was  a  friend  and  counsellor  of  Philip,  were  ap- 
prehended and  tried,  and,  on  the  testimony  of  one  very 
questionable  witness,  were  condemned  and  executed  as 
murderers. 

This  treatment  of  his  subjects,  and  ignominious  pun- 
ishment of  his  friend,  outraged  the  pride  and  exasperated 
the  passions  of  Philip.  The  bolt  which  had  fallen  thus  at 
his  very  feet  awakened  him  to  the  gathering  storm,  and 
he  determined  to  trust  himself  no  longer  in  the  power 
of  the  white  men.  The  fate  of  his  insulted  and  broken- 
hearted brother  still  rankled  in  his  mind ;  and  he  had  a 
further  warning  in  the  tragical  story  of  Miantonimo,  a 
great  Sachem  of  the  Narragansets,  who,  after  manfully 
facing  his  accusers  before  a  tribunal  of  the  colonists, 
exculpating  himself  from  a  charge  of  conspiracy,  and  re- 
ceiving assurances  of  amity,  had  been  perfidiously  de- 
spatched at  their  instigation.  Philip,  therefore,  gathered 
his  fighting  men  about  him ;  persuaded  all  strangers  that 
he  could,  to  join  his  cause  ;  sent  the  women  and  children 
to  the  Narragansets  for  safety;  and  wherever  he  ap- 
peared, was  continually  surrounded  by  armed  warriors. 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET,  415 

When  the  two  parties  were  thus  in  a  state  of  distrust 
and  irritation,  the  least  spark  was  sufficient  to  set  them 
in  a  flame.  The  Indians,  having  weapons  in  their  hands, 
grew  mischievous,  and  committed  various  petty  depreda- 
tions. In  one  of  their  maraudings  a  warrior  was  fired  on 
and  killed  by  a  settler.  This  was  the  signal  for  open  hos- 
tilities ;  the  Indians  pressed  to  revenge  the  death  of  their 
comrade,  and  the  alarm  of  war  resounded  through  the 
Plymouth  colony. 

In  the  early  chronicles  of  these  dark  and  melancholy 
times  we  meet  with  many  indications  of  the  diseased  state 
of  the  public  mind.  The  gloom  of  religious  abstraction, 
and  the  wildness  of  their  situation,  among  trackless  for- 
ests and  savage  tribes,  had  disposed  the  colonists  to 
superstitious  fancies,  and  had  filled  their  imaginations 
with  the  frightful  chimeras  of  witchcraft  and  spectrology. 
They  were  much  given  also  to  a  belief  in  omens.  The 
troubles  with  Philip  and  his  Indians  were  preceded,  we 
are  told,  by  a  variety  of  those  awful  warnings  which  fore- 
run great  and  public  calamities.  The  perfect  form  of  an 
Indian  bow  appeared  in  the  air  at  New  Plymouth,  which 
was  looked  upon  by  the  inhabitants  as  a  "  prodigious  ap- 
parition." At  Hadley,  Northampton,  and  other  towns  in 
their  neighborhood,  "was  heard  the  report  of  a  great 
piece  of  ordnance,  with  a  shaking  of  the  earth  and  a  con- 
siderable echo."  ^    Others  were  alarmed  on  a  still,  sun= 

*  The  Eev.  Increase  Mather's  History. 


416  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

shiny  morning,  by  tlie  discliarge  of  guns  and  muskets ; 
bullets  seemed  to  whistle  past  them,  and  the  noise  of 
drums  resounded  in  the  air,  seeming  to  pass  away  to  the 
westward ;  others  fancied  that  they  heard  the  galloping 
of  horses  over  their  heads ;  and  certain  monstrous  births, 
which  took  place  about  the  time,  filled  the  superstitious 
in  some  towns  with  doleful  forebodings.  Many  of  these 
portentous  sights  and  sounds  may  be  ascribed  to  natural 
phenomena :  to  the  northern  lights  which  occur  vividly 
in  those  latitudes ;  the  meteors  which  explode  in  the  air ; 
the  casual  rushing  of  a  blast  through  the  top  branches  of 
the  forest ;  the  crash  of  fallen  trees  or  disrupted  rocks ; 
and  to  those  other  uncouth  sounds  and  echoes  which  will 
sometimes  strike  the  ear  so  strangely  amidst  the  pro- 
found stillness  of  woodland  solitudes.  These  may  have 
startled  some  melancholy  imaginations,  may  have  been 
exaggerated  by  the  love  of  the  marvellous,  and  listened 
to  with  that  avidity  with  which  we  devour  whatever  is 
fearful  and  mysterious.  The  universal  currency  of  these 
superstitious  fancies,  and  the  grave  record  made  of  them 
by  one  of  the  learned  men  of  the  day,  are  strongly  char- 
acteristic of  the  times. 

The  nature  of  the  contest  that  ensued  was  such  as  too 
often  distinguishes  the  warfare  between  civilized  men 
and  savages.  On  the  part  of  the  whites  it  was  conducted 
with  superior  skill  and  success ;  but  with  a  wastefulness 
of  the  blood,  and  a  disregard  of  the  natural  rights  of 
their  antagonists :    on  the  part  of  the  Indians  it  was 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKBT.  417 

waged  witli  the  desperation  of  men  fearless  of  death,  and 
who  had  nothing  to  expect  from  peace,  but  humiliation, 
dependence,  and  decay. 

The  events  of  the  war  are  transmitted  to  us  by  a 
worthy  clergyman  of  the  time ;  who  dwells  with  horror 
and  indignation  on  every  hostile  act  of  the  Indians,  how- 
ever justifiable,  whilst  he  mentions  with  applause  the 
most  sanguinary  atrocities  of  the  whites.  Philip  is  re- 
viled as  a  murderer  and  a  traitor;  without  considering 
that  he  was  a  true  born  prince,  gallantly  fighting  at  the 
head  of  his  subjects  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  his  family ; 
to  retrieve  the  tottering  power  of  his  line ;  and  to  deliver 
his  native  land  from  the  oppression  of  usurping  strangers. 

The  project  of  a  wide  and  simultaneous  revolt,  if  such 
had  really  been  formed,  was  worthy  of  a  capacious  mind, 
and,  had  it  not  been  prematurely  discovered,  might  have 
been  overwhelming  in  its  consequences.  The  war  that 
actually  broke  out  was  but  a  war  of  detail,  a  mere  suc- 
cession of  casual  exploits  and  unconnected  enterprises. 
Still  it  sets  forth  the  military  genius  and  daring  prow- 
ess of  Philip ;  and  wherever,  in  the  prejudiced  and  pas- 
sionate narrations  that  have  been  given  of  it,  we  can 
arrive  at  simple  facts,  we  find  him  displaying  a  vigorous 
mind,  a  fertility  of  expedients,  a  contempt  of  suffering 
and  hardship,  and  an  unconquerable  resolution,  that 
command  our  sympathy  and  applause. 

Driven  from  his  paternal  domains  at  Mount  Hope,  he 
threw  himself  into  the  depths  of  those  vast  and  trackless 
27 


418  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

forests  tliat  skirted  the  settlements,  and  were  almost  im- 
pervious to  anything  but  a  wild  beast,  or  an  Indian. 
Here  he  gathered  together'  his  forces,  like  the  storm 
accumulating  its  stores  of  mischief  in  the  bosom  of  the 
thunder  cloud,  and  would  suddenly  emerge  at  a  time  and 
place  least  expected,  carrying  havoc  and  dismay  into  the 
villages.  There  were  now  and  then  indications  of  these 
impending  ravages,  that  filled  the  minds  of  the  colonists 
with  awe  and  apprehension.  The  report  of  a  distant  gun 
would  perhaps  be  heard  from  the  solitary  woodland, 
where  there  was  known  to  be  no  white  man ;  the  cattle 
which  had  been  wandering  in  the  woods  would  some- 
times return  home  wounded ;  or  an  Indian  or  two  would 
be  seen  lurking  about  the  skirts  of  the  forests,  and  sud- 
denly disappearing ;  as  the  lightning  will  sometimes  be 
seen  playing  silently  about  the  edge  of  the  cloud  that  is 
brewing  up  the  tempest. 

Though  sometimes  pursued  and  even  surrounded  by 
the  settlers,  yet  Philip  as  often  escaped  almost  miracu- 
lously from  their  toils,  and,  plunging  into  the  wilderness, 
would  be  lost  to  all  search  or  inquiry,  until  he  again 
emerged  at  some  far  distant  quarter,  laying  the  country 
desolate.  Among  his  strongholds,  were  the  great  swamps 
or  morasses,  which  extend  in  some  parts  of  New  Eng- 
land; composed  of  loose  bogs  of  deep  black  mud;  per- 
plexed with  thickets,  brambles,  rank  weeds,  the  shattered 
and  mouldering  trunks  of  fallen  trees,  overshadowed  by 
lugubrious  hemlocks.     The  uncertain  footing  and  the  tan- 


PHILIP  OF  poRanoket.  4,19 

gled  mazes  of  these  shaggy  wilds,  rendered  them  almost 
impracticable  to  the  white  man,  though  the  Indian  could 
thrid  their  labyrinths  with  the  agility  of  a  deer.  Into 
one  of  these,  the  great  swamp  of  Pocasset  Neck,  was 
Philip  once  driven  with  a  band  of  his  followers.  The 
English  did  not  dare  to  pursue  him,  fearing  to  venture 
into  these  dark  and  frightful  recesses,  where  they  might 
perish  in  fens  and  miry  pits,  or  be  shot  down  by  lurking 
foes.  They  therefore  invested  the  entrance  to  the  Neck, 
and  began  to  build  a  fort,  with  the  thought  of  starving 
out  the  foe ;  but  Philip  and  his  warriors  wafted  them- 
selves on  a  raft  over  an  arm  of  the  sea,  in  the  dead  of  the 
night,  leaving  the  women  and  children  behind ;  and  es- 
caped away  to  the  westward,  kindling  the  flames  of  war 
among  the  tribes  of  Massachusetts  and  the  Nipmuck 
country,  and  threatening  the  colony  of  Connecticut. 

In  this  way  Philip  became  a  theme  of  universal  appre- 
hension. The  mystery  in  which  he  was  enveloped  exag- 
gerated his  real  terrors.  He  was  an  evil  that  walked  in 
darkness ;  whose  coming  none  could  foresee,  and  against 
which  none  knew  when  to  be  on  the  alert.  The  whole 
country  abounded  with  rumors  and  alarms.  Philip 
seemed  almost  possessed  of  ubiquity ;  for,  in  whatever 
part  of  the  widely-extended  frontier  an  irruption  from 
the  forest  took  place,  Philip  was  said  to  be  its  leader. 
Many  superstitious  notions  also  were  circulated  concern- 
ing him.  He  was  said  to  deal  in  necromancy,  and  to  be 
attended  by  an  old  Indian  witch  or  prophetess,  whom  he 


420  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

consulted,  and  who  assisted  him  by  her  charms  and  in- 
cantations. This  indeed  was  frequently  the  case  with 
Indian  chiefs ;  either  through  their  own  credulity,  or  to 
act  upon  that  of  their  followers  :  and  the  influence  of  the 
prophet  and  the  dreamer  over  Indian  superstition  has 
been  fully  evidenced  in  recent  instances  of  savage  war- 
fare. 

At  the  time  that  Philip  effected  his  escape  from  Po- 
casset,  his  fortunes  were  in  a  desperate  condition.  His 
forces  had  been  thinned  by  repeated  fights,  and  he  had 
lost  almost  the  whole  of  his  resources.  In  this  time  of 
adversity  he  found  a  faithful  friend  in  Canonchet,  chief 
Sachem  of  all  the  Narragansets.  He  was  the  son  and 
heir  of  Miantonimo,  the  great  Sachem,  who,  as  already 
mentioned,  after  an  honorable  acquittal  of  the  charge  of 
conspiracy,  had  been  privately  put  to  death  at  the  per- 
fidious instigations  of  the  settlers.  "  He  was  the  heir," 
says  the  old  chronicler,  "  of  all  his  father's  pride  and  in- 
solence, as  well  as  of  his  malice  towards  the  English;" — 
he  certainly  was  the  heir  of  his  insults  and  injuries,  and 
the  legitimate  avenger  of  his  murder.  Though  he  had 
forborne  to  take  an  active  part  in  this  hopeless  war,  yet 
he  received  Philip  and  his  broken  forces  with  open  arms ; 
and  gave  them  the  most  generous  countenance  and  sup- 
port. This  at  once  drew  upon  him  the  hostility  of  the 
English ;  and  it  was  determined  to  strike  a  signal  blow 
that  should  involve  both  the  Sachems  in  one  common 
ruin.     A  great  force  was,  therefore,   gathered  together 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  421 

from  Massachusetts,  Plymouth,  and  Connecticut,  and 
was  sent  into  the  Narraganset  country  in  the  depth  of 
winter,  when  the  swamps,  being  frozen  and  leafless,  could 
be  traversed  with  comparative  facility,  and  would  no 
longer  afford  dark  and  impenetrable  fastnesses  to  the 
Indians. 

Apprehensive  of  attack,  Canonchet  had  conveyed  the 
greater  part  of  his  stores,  together  with  the  old,  the  in- 
firm, the  women  and  children  of  his  tribe,  to  a  strong 
fortress ;  where  he  and  Philip  had  likewise  drawn  up  the 
flower  of  their  forces.  This  fortress,  deemed  by  the  In- 
dians impregnable,  was  situated  upon  a  rising  mound  or 
kind  of  island,  of  ^-^^  or  six  acres,  in  the  midst  of  a 
swamp ;  it  was  constructed  with  a  degree  of  judgment  and 
skill  vastly  superior  to  what  is  usually  displayed  in  In- 
dian fortification,  and  indicative  of  the  martial  genius  of 
these  two  chieftains. 

Guided  by  a  renegado  Indian,  the  English  penetrated, 
through  December  snows,  to  this  stronghold,  and  came 
upon  the  garrison  by  surprise.  The  fight  was  fierce  and 
tumultuous.  The  assailants  were  repulsed  in  their  first 
attack,  and  several  of  their  bravest  officers  were  shot 
down  in  the  act  of  storming  the  fortress  sword  in  hand. 
The  assault  was  renewed  with  greater  success.  A  lodg- 
ment was  effected.  The  Indians  were  driven  from  one 
post  to  another.  They  disputed  their  ground  inch  by 
inch,  fighting  with  the  fury  of  despair.  Most  of  their 
veterans  were  cut  to  pieces ;  and  after  a  long  and  bloody 


422  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

battle,  Philip  and  Canoncliet,  with  a  handful  of  surviving 
warriors,  retreated  from  the  fort,  and  took  refuge  in  the 
thickets  of  the  surrounding  forest. 

The  victors  set  fire  to  the  wigwams  and  the  fort ;  the 
whole  was  soon  in  a  blaze ;  many  of  the  old  men,  the 
women  and  the  children  perished  in  the  flames.  This 
last  outrage  overcame  even  the  stoicism  of  the  savage. 
The  neighboring  woods  resounded  with  the  yells  of  rage 
and  despair,  uttered  by  the  fugitive  warriors,  as  they  be- 
held the  destruction  of  their  dwellings,  and  heard  the 
agonizing  cries  of  their  wives  and  offspring.  "  The  burn- 
ing of  the  wigwams,"  says  a  contemporary  writer,  "  the 
shrieks  and  cries  of  the  women  and  children,  and  the 
yelling  of  the  warriors,  exhibited  a  most  horrible  and  af- 
fecting scene,  so  that  it  greatly  moved  some  of  the  sol- 
diers." The  same  writer  cautiously  adds,  "they  were 
in  much  doubt  then,  and  afterwards  seriously  inquired, 
whether  burning  their  enemies  alive  could  be  consist- 
ent with  humanity,  and  the  benevolent  principles  of  the 
Gospel."* 

The  fate  of  the  brave  and  generous  Canonchet  is  wor- 
thy of  particular  mention  :  the  last  scene  of  his  life  is 
one  of  the  noblest  instances  on  record  of  Indian  magna- 
nimity. 

Broken  down  in  his  power  and  resources  by  this  signal 
defeat,  yet  faithful  to  his  ally,  and  to  the  hapless  cause 

*  MS.  of  the  Rev.  W.  Ruggles. 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  423 

which  he  had  espoused,  he  rejected  all  oyertures  of 
peace,  offered  on  condition  of  betraying  Philip  and  his 
followers,  and  declared  that  "  he  would  fight  it  out  to  the 
last  man,  rather  than  become  a  servant  to  the  English." 
His  home  being  destroyed ;  his  country  harassed  and 
laid  waste  by  the  incursions  of  the  conquerors ;  he  was 
obliged  to  wander  away  to  the  banks  of  the  Connecticut ; 
where  he  formed  a  rallying  point  to  the  whole  body  of 
western  Indians,  and  laid  waste  several  of  the  English 
settlements. 

Early  in  the  spring  he  departed  on  a  hazardous  expe- 
dition, with  only  thirty  chosen  men,  to  penetrate  to  Sea- 
conck,  in  the  vicinity  of  Mount  Hope,  and  to  procure 
seed  corn  to  plant  for  the  sustenance  of  his  troops.  This 
little  band  of  adventurers  had  passed  safely  through  the 
Pequod  country,  and  were  in  the  centre  of  the  Narragan- 
set,  resting  at  some  wigwams  near  Pawtucket  Kiver, 
when  an  alarm  was  given  of  an  approaching  enemy. — 
Having  but  seven  men  by  him  at  the  time,  Canonchet 
despatched  two  of  them  to  the  top  of  a  neighboring  hill, 
to  bring  intelligence  of  the  foe. 

Panic-struck  by  the  appearance  of  a  troop  of  English 
and  Indians  rapidly  advancing,  they  fled  in  breathless 
terror  past  their  chieftain,  without  stopping  to  inform 
him  of  the  danger.  Canonchet  sent  another  scout,  who 
did  the  same.  He  then  sent  two  more,  one  of  whom, 
hurrying  back  in  confusion  and  affright,  told  him  that 
the  whole  British  army  was  at  hand.     Canonchet  saw 


424:  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK 

there  was  no  choice  but  immediate  flight.  He  attempted 
to  escape  round  the  hill,  but  was  perceived  and  hotly 
pursued  by  the  hostile  Indians  and  a  few  of  the  fleetest 
of  the  English.  Finding  the  swiftest  pursuer  close  upon 
his  heels,  he  threw  off,  first  his  blanket,  then  his  silver- 
laced  coat  and  belt  of  peag,  by  which  his  enemies  knew 
him  to  be  Canonchet,  and  redoubled  the  eagerness  of 
pursuit. 

At  length,  in  dashing  through  the  river,  his  foot  slipped 
upon  a  stone,  and  he  fell  so  deep  as  to  wet  his  gun.  This 
accident  so  struck  him  with  despair,  that,  as  he  after- 
wards confessed,  "  his  heart  and  his  bowels  turned  with- 
in him,  and  he  became  like  a  rotten  stick,  void  of 
strength." 

To  such  a  degree  was  he  unnerved,  that,  being  seized 
by  a  Pequod  Indian  within  a  short  distance  of  the  river, 
he  made  no  resistance,  though  a  man  of  great  vigor  of 
body  and  boldness  of  heart.  But  on  being  made  pris- 
oner the  whole  pride  of  his  spirit  arose  within  him ;  and 
from  that  moment,  we  find,  in  the  anecdotes  given  by  his 
enemies,  nothing  but  repeated  flashes  of  elevated  and 
prince-like  heroism.  Being  questioned  by  one  of  the 
English  who  first  came  up  with  him,  and  who  had  not 
attained  his  twenty-second  year,  the  proud-hearted  war- 
rior, looking  with  lofty  contempt  upon  his  youthful  coun- 
tenance, replied,  "You  are  a  child — you  cannot  under- 
stand matters  of  war — let  your  brother  or  your  chief 
come — ^him  will  I  answer." 


Lir'":"^':'4*fmf?,-'ii_ 


PHILIP  OF  POEANOKET.  425 

Thougli  repeated  offers  were  made  to  him  of  his  life,  on 
condition  of  submitting  with  his  nation  to  the  English, 
yet  he  rejected  them  with  dis.lain,  and  refused  to  send 
any  proposals  of  the  kind  to  the  great  body  of  his  sub- 
jects J  saying,  that  he  knew  none  of  them  would  comply. 
Being  reproached  with  his  breach  of  faith  towards  the 
whites ;  his  boast  that  he  would  not  deliver  up  a  Wam- 
panoag  nor  the  paring  of  a  Wampanoag's  nail ;  and  his 
threat  that  he  would  burn  the  English  alive  in  their 
houses;  he  disdained  to  justify  himself,  haughtily  an- 
swering that  others  were  as  forward  for  the  war  as  him- 
self, and  "  he  desired  to  hear  no  more  thereof." 

So  noble  and  unshaken  a  spirit,  so  true  a  fidelity  to  his 
cause  and  his  friend,  might  have  touched  the  feelings  of 
the  generous  and  the  brave ;  but  Canonchet  was  an  In- 
dian; a  being  towards  whom  war  had  no  courtesy, 
humanity  no  law,  religion  no  compassion  —  he  was 
condemned  to  die.  The  last  words  of  him  that  are 
recorded,  are  worthy  the  greatness  of  his  soul.  When 
sentence  of  death  was  passed  upon  him,  he  observed 
"  that  he  liked  it  well,  for  he  should  die  before  his 
heart  was  soft,  or  he  had  spoken  any  thing  unworthy  of 
himself."  His  enemies  gave  him  the  death  of  a  soldier, 
for  he  was  shot  at  Stoningham,  by  three  young  Sachems 
of  his  own  rank. 

The  defeat  at  the  Narraganset  fortress,  and  the  death 
of  Canonchet,  were  fatal  blows  to  the  fortunes  of  King 
Philip.    He  made  an  ineffectual  attempt  to  raise  a  head 


426  T^^  aKETGH-BOOK. 

of  war,  by  stirring  up  tlie  Mohawks  to  take  arms ;  but 
tbougli  possessed  of  the  native  talents  of  a  statesman, 
his  arts  were  counteracted  by  the  superior  arts  of  his  en- 
lightened enemies,  and  the  terror  of  their  warlike  skill 
began  to  subdue  the  resolution  of  the  neighboring  tribes. 
The  unfortunate  chieftain  saw  himself  daily  stripped  of 
power,  and  his  ranks  rapidly  thinning  around  him.  Some 
were  suborned  by  the  whites ;  others  fell  victims  to  hun- 
ger and  fatigue,  and  to  the  frequent  attacks  by  which 
they  were  harassed.  His  stores  were  all  captured;  his 
chosen  friends  were  swept  away  from  before  his  eyes; 
his  uncle  was  shot  down  by  his  side ;  his  sister  was  car- 
ried into  captivity ;  and  in  one  of  his  narrow  escapes  he 
was  compelled  to  leave  his  beloved  wife  and  only  son  to 
the  mercy  of  the  enemy.  "  His  ruin,"  says  the  historian, 
"being  thus  gradually  carried  on,  his  misery  was  not 
prevented,  but  augmented  thereby;  being  himself  made 
acquainted  with  the  sense  and  experimental  feeling  of  the 
captivity  of  his  children,  loss  of  friends,  slaughter  of  his 
subjects,  bereavement  of  all  family  relations,  and  being 
stripped  of  all  outward  comforts,  before  his  own  life 
should  be  taken  away." 

To  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  misfortunes,  his  own  fol- 
lowers began  to  plot  against  his  life,  that  by  sacrificing 
him  they  might  purchase  dishonorable  safety.  Through 
treachery  a  number  of  his  faithful  adherents,  the  subjects 
of  Wetamoe,  an  Indian  princess  of  Pocasset,  a  near  kins- 
woman and  confederate  of  Philip,  were  betrayed  into  the 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  427 

hands  of  the  enemy.  Wetamoe  was  among  them  at  the 
time,  and  attempted  to  make  her  escape  by  crossing  a 
neighboring  river :  either  exhausted  by  swimming,  or 
starved  by  cold  and  hunger,  she  was  found  dead  and 
naked  near  the  water  side.  But  persecution  ceased  not 
at  the  grave.  Even  death,  the  refuge  of  the  wretched, 
where  the  wicked  commonly  cease  from  troubling,  was  no 
protection  to  this  outcast  female,  whose  great  crime  was 
affectionate  fidelity  to  her  kinsman  and  her  friend.  Her 
corpse  was  the  object  of  unmanly  and  dastardly  ven- 
geance ;  the  head  was  severed  from  the  body  and  set 
upon  a  pole,  and  was  thus  exposed  at  Taunton,  to  the 
view  of  her  captive  subjects.  They  immediately  recog- 
nized the  features  of  their  unfortunate  queen,  and  were 
so  affected  at  this  barbarous  spectacle,  that  we  are  told 
they  broke  forth  into  the  "  most  horrible  and  diabolical 
lamentations." 

However  Philip  had  borne  up  against  the  complicated 
miseries  and  misfortunes  that  surrounded  him,  the 
treachery  of  his  followers  seemed  to  wring  his  heart  and 
reduce  him  to  despondency.  It  is  said  that  "he  never 
rejoiced  afterwards,  nor  had  success  in  any  of  his  de- 
signs." The  spring  of  hope  was  broken — the  ardor  of 
enterprise  was  extinguished — he  looked  around,  and  all 
was  danger  and  darkness ;  there  was  no  eye  to  pity,  nor 
any  arm  that  could  bring  deliverance.  With  a  scanty 
band  of  followers,  who  still  remained  true  to  his  desper- 
ate fortunes,  the  unhappy  Philip  wandered  back  to  the 


428  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

vicinity  of  Mount  Hope,  the  ancient  dwelling  of  his  fa- 
thers. Here  he  lurked  about,  like  a  spectre,  among  the 
scenes  of  former  power  and  prosperity,  now  bereft  of 
home,  of  family  and  friend.  There  needs  no  better  pic- 
ture of  his  destitute  and  piteous  situation,  than  that  fur- 
nished by  the  homely  pen  of  the  chronicler,  who  is  un- 
warily enlisting  the  feelings  of  the  reader  in  favor  of  the 
hapless  warrior  whom  he  reviles.  "  Philip,"  he  says, 
"like  a  savage  wild  beast,  having  been  hunted  by  the 
English  forces  through  the  woods,  above  a  hundred  miles 
backward  and  forward,  at  last  was  driven  to  his  own  den 
upon  Mount  Hope,  where  he  retired,  with  a  few  of  his 
best  friends,  into  a  swamp,  which  proved  but  a  prison  to 
keep  him  fast  till  the  messengers  of  death  came  by 
divine  permission  to  execute  vengeance  upon  him." 

Even  in  this  last  refuge  of  desperation  and  despair,  a 
sullen  grandeur  gathers  round  his  memory.  We  picture 
him  to  ourselves  seated  among  his  care-worn  followers, 
brooding  in  silence  over  his  blasted  fortunes,  and  acquir- 
ing a  savage  sublimity  from  the  wildness  and  dreariness 
of  his  lurking-place.  Defeated,  but  not  dismayed  — 
crushed  to  the  earth,  but  not  humiliated — he  seemed  to 
grow  more  haughty  beneath  disaster,  and  to  experience 
a  fierce  satisfaction  in  draining  the  last  dregs  of  bitter- 
ness. Little  minds  are  tamed  and  subdued  by  misfor- 
tune ;  but  great  minds  rise  above  it.  The  very  idea  of 
submission  awakened  the  fury  of  Philip,  and  he  smote  to 
death  one  of  his  followers,  who  proposed  an  expedient  of 


PEILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  429 

peace.  The  brother  of  the  victim  made  his  escape,  and 
in  revenge  betrayed  the  retreat  of  his  chieftain.  A  body 
of  white  men  and  Indians  were  immediately  despatched 
to  the  swamp  where  Philip  lay  crouched,  glaring  with 
fury  and  despair.  Before  he  was  aware  of  their  ap- 
proach, they  had  begun  to  surround  him.  In  a  little 
while  he  saw  ^yq  of  his  trustiest  followers  laid  dead  at 
his  feet;  all  resistance  was  vain;  he  rushed  forth  from 
his  covert,  and  made  a  headlong  attempt  to  escape,  but 
was  shot  through  the  heart  by  a  renegado  Indian  of  his 
own  nation. 

Such  is  the  scanty  story  of  the  brave,  but  unfortunate 
King  Philip ;  persecuted  while  living,  slandered  and  dis- 
honored when  dead.  If,  however,  we  consider  even  the 
prejudiced  anecdotes  furnished  us  by  his  enemies,  we 
may  perceive  in  them  traces  of  amiable  and  lofty  charac- 
ter sufficient  to  awaken  sympathy  for  his  fate,  and  respect 
for  his  memory.  We  find  that,  amidst  all  the  harassing 
cares  and  ferocious  passions  of  constant  warfare,  he  was 
alive  to  the  softer  feelings  of  connubial  love  and  paternal 
tenderness,  and  to  the  generous  sentiment  of  friendship. 
The  captivity  of  his  "  beloved  wife  and  only  son "  are 
mentioned  with  exultation  as  causing  him  poignant  mis- 
ery :  the  death  of  any  near  friend  is  triumphantly  re- 
corded as  a  new  blow  on  his  sensibilities ;  but  the 
treachery  and  desertion  of  many  of  his  followers,  in 
whose  affections  he  had  confided,  is  said  to  have  deso- 
lated his  heart,  and  to  have  bereaved  him  of  all  further 


430  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

comfort.  He  was  a  patriot  attached  to  his  native  soil— ' 
a  prince  true  to  his  subjects,  and  indignant  of  their 
wrongs — a  soldier,  daring  in  battle,  firm  in  adversity, 
patient  of  fatigue,  of  hunger,  of  every  variety  of  bodily 
suffering,  and  ready  to  perish  in  the  cause  he  had  es- 
poused. Proud  of  heart,  and  with  an  untamable  love  of 
natural  liberty,  he  preferred  to  enjoy  it  among  the  beasts 
of  the  forests  or  in  the  dismal  and  famished  recesses  of 
swamps  and  morasses,  rather  than  bow  his  haughty  spirit 
to  submission,  and  live  dependent  and  despised  in  the 
ease  and  luxury  of  the  settlements.  With  heroic  quali- 
ties and  bold  achievements  that  would  have  graced  a 
civilized  warrior,  and  have  rendered  him  the  theme  of 
the  poet  and  the  historian ;  he  lived  a  wanderer  and  a 
fugitive  in  his  native  land,  and  went  down,  like  a  lonely 
bark  foundering  amid  darkness  and  tempest — without  a 
pitying  eye  to  weep  his  fall,  or  a  friendly  hand  to  record 
his  struggle. 


JOHN    BULL. 

An  old  song,  made  by  an  aged  old  pate, 
Of  an  old  worshipful  gentleman  who  had  a  great  estate. 
That  kept  a  brave  old  house  at  a  bountiful  rate, 
And  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at  his  gate. 
With  an  old  study  fill'd  full  of  learned  old  books, 
With  an  old  reverend  chaplain,  you  might  know  him  by  his  looks. 
With  an  old  buttery  hatch  worn  quite  ofE  the  hooks, 
And  an  old  kitchen  that  maintained  half-a-dozen  old  cooks. 
Like  an  old  courtier,  etc. 

Old  Song. 

HEEE  is  no  species  of  humor  in  wliicli  tlie  Eng- 
lish more  excel,  than  that  which  consists  in 
caricaturing  and  giving  ludicrous  appellations, 
or  nicknames.  In  this  way  they  have  whimsically  desig- 
nated, not  merely  individuals,  but  nations;  and,  in  their 
fondness  for  pushing  a  joke,  they  have  not  spared  even 
themselves.  One  would  think  that,  in  personifying  itself, 
a  nation  would  be  apt  to  picture  something  grand,  heroic, 
and  imposing ;  but  it  is  characteristic  of  the  peculiar  hu- 
mor of  the  English,  and  of  their  love  for  what  is  blunt, 
comic,  and  familiar,  that  they  have  embodied  their  na- 
tional oddities  in  the  figure  of  a  sturdy,  corpulent  old  fel- 
low,  with  a  three-cornered  hat,  red  waistcoat,  leather 

431 


432  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK 

breeches,  and  stout  oaken  cudgel.  Thus  they  have  taken 
a  singular  delight  in  exhibiting  their  most  private  foibles 
in  a  laughable  point  of  view ;  and  have  been  so  successful 
in  their  delineations,  that  there  is  scarcely  a  being  in 
actual  existence  more  absolutely  present  to  the  public 
mind  than  that  eccentric  personage,  John  Bull. 

Perhaps  the  continual  contemplation  of  the  character 
thus  drawn  of  them  has  contributed  to  fix  it  upon  the 
nation ;  and  thus  to  give  reality  to  what  at  first  may  have 
been  painted  in  a  great  measure  from  the  imagination. 
Men  are  apt  to  acquire  peculiarities  that  are  continually 
ascribed  to  them.  The  common  orders  of  English  seem 
wonderfully  captivated  with  the  heau  ideal  which  they 
have  formed  of  John  Bull,  and  endeavor  to  act  up  to  the 
broad  caricature  that  is  perpetually  before  their  eyes. 
Unluckily,  they  sometimes  make  their  boasted  Bull-ism 
an  apology  for  their  prejudice  or  grossness ;  and  this  I 
have  especially  noticed  among  those  truly  homebred  and 
genuine  sons  of  the  soil  who  have  never  migrated  beyond 
the  sound  of  Bow-bells.  If  one  of  these  should  be  a 
little  uncouth  in  speech,  and  apt  to  utter  impertinent 
truths,  he  confesses  that  he  is  a  real  John  Bull,  and  al- 
ways speaks  his  mind.  If  he  now  and  then  flies  into  an 
unreasonable  burst  of  passion  about  trifles,  he  observes, 
that  John  Bull  is  a  choleric  old  blade,  but  then  his  pas- 
sion is  over  in  a  moment,  and  he  bears  no  malice.  If  he 
betrays  a  coarseness  of  taste,  and  an  insensibility  to  for- 
eign refinements,  he  thanks  heaven  for  his  ignorance — he 


JOHN  BULL.  433 

is  a  plain  John  Bull,  and  has  no  relish  for  frippery  and 
nicknacks.  His  very  proneness  to  be  gulled  by  strangers, 
and  to  pay  extravagantly  for  absurdities,  is  excused  under 
the  plea  of  munificence — for  John  is  always  more  gener- 
ous than  wise. 

Thus,  under  the  name  of  John  Bull,  he  will  contrive  to 
argue  every  fault  into  a  merit,  and  will  frankly  convict 
himself  of  being  the  honestest  fellow  in  existence. 

However  little,  therefore,  the  character  may  have  suited 
in  the  first  instance,  it  has  gradually  adapted  itself  to  the 
nation,  or  rather  they  have  adapted  themselves  to  each 
other ;  and  a  stranger  who  wishes  to  study  English  pecu- 
liarities, may  gather  much  valuable  information  from  the 
innumerable  portraits  of  John  Bull,  as  exhibited  in  the 
windows  of  the  caricature-shops.  Still,  however,  he  is 
one  of  those  fertile  humorists,  that  are  continually 
throwing  out  new  portraits,  and  presenting  different 
aspects  from  different  points  of  view ;  and,  often  as  he 
has  been  described,  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to 
give  a  slight  sketch  of  him,  such  as  he  has  met  my  eye. 

John  Bull,  to  all  appearance,  is  a  plain  downright 
matter-of-fact  fellow,  with  much  less  of  poetry  about 
him  than  rich  prose.  There  is  little  of  romance  in  his 
nature,  but  a  vast  deal  of  strong  natural  feeling.  He 
excels  in  humor  more  than  in  wit;  is  jolly  rather  than 
gay ;  melancholy  rather  than  morose ;  can  easily  be 
moved  to  a  sudden  tear,  or  surprised  into  a  broad 
laugh;  but  he   loathes   sentiment,  and  has  no  turn  for 


434  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

light  pleasantry.  He  is  a  boon  companion,  if  you  allow 
him  to  have  his  humor,  and  to  talk  about  himself ;  and 
he  will  stand  by  a  friend  in  a  quarrel,  with  life  and  purse, 
however  soundly  he  may  be  cudgelled. 

In  this  last  respect,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  has  a  propen- 
sity to  be  somewhat  too  ready.  He  is  a  busy-minded 
personage,  who  thinks  not  merely  for  himself  and  family, 
but  for  all  the  country  round,  and  is  most  generously  dis- 
posed to  be  everybody's  champion.  He  is  continually 
volunteering  his  services  to  settle  his  neighbors'  affairs, 
and  takes  it  in  great  dudgeon  if  they  engage  in  any  mat- 
ter of  consequence  without  asking  his  advice  ;  though  he 
seldom  engages  in  any  friendly  office  of  the  kind  without 
finishing  by  getting  into  a  squabble  with  all  parties,  and 
then  railing  bitterly  at  their  ingratitude.  He  unluckily 
took  lessons  in  his  youth  in  the  noble  science  of  defence, 
and  having  accomplished  himself  in  the  use  of  his  limbs 
and  his  weapons,  and  become  a  perfect  master  at  boxing 
and  cudgel-play,  he  has  had  a  troublesome  life  of  it  ever 
since.  He  cannot  hear  of  a  quarrel  between  the  most 
distant  of  his  neighbors,  but  he  begins  incontinently  to 
fumble  with  the  head  of  his  cudgel,  and  consider  whether 
his  interest  or  honor  does  not  require  that  he  should 
meddle  in  the  broil.  Indeed  he  has  extended  his  rela- 
tions of  pride  and  policy  so  completely  over  the  whole 
country,  that  no  event  can  take  place,  without  infringing 
some  of  his  finely-spun  rights  and  dignities.  Couched  in 
his  little  domain,  with  these  filaments  stretching  forth  in 


JOHN  BULL,  435 

every  direction,  lie  is  like  some  choleric,  bottle-bellied 
old  spider,  who  has  woven  his  web  oyer  a  whole  cham- 
ber, so  that  a  fly  cannot  buzz,  nor  a  breeze  blow,  without 
startling  his  repose,  and  causing  him  to  sally  forth 
wrathfully  from  his  den. 

Though  really  a  good-hearted,  good-tempered  old  fel- 
low at  bottom,  yet  he  is  singularly  fond  of  being  in  the 
midst  of  contention.  It  is  one  of  his  peculiarities,  how- 
ever, that  he  only  relishes  the  beginning  of  an  affray  ;  he 
always  goes  into  a  fight  with  alacrity,  but  comes  out  of  it 
grumbling  even  when  victorious ;  and  though  no  one 
fights  with  more  obstinacy  to  carry  a  contested  point, 
yet,  when  the  battle  is  over,  and  he  comes  to  the  recon- 
ciliation, he  is  so  much  taken  up  with  the  mere  shaking 
of  hands,  that  he  is  apt  to  let  his  antagonist  pocket  all 
that  they  have  been  quarrelling  about.  It  is  not,  there- 
fore, fighting  that  he  ought  so  much  to  be  on  his  guard 
against,  as  making  friends.  It  is  difficult  to  cudgel  him 
out  of  a  farthing  ;  but  put  him  in  a  good  humor,  and  you 
may  bargain  him  out  of  all  the  money  in  his  pocket.  He 
is  like  a  stout  ship,  which  will  weather  the  roughest 
storm  uninjured,  but  roll  its  masts  overboard  in  the  suc- 
ceeding calm. 

He  is  a  little  fond  of  playing  the  magnifico  abroad ;  of 
pulling  out  a  long  purse ;  flinging  his  money  bravely 
about  at  boxing  matches,  horse  races,  cock  fights,  and 
carrying  a  high  head  among  "  gentlemen  of  the  fancy  :  " 
but  immediately  after  one  of  these  fits  of  extravagance, 


436  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

he  will  be  taken  with  violent  qualms  of  economy  ;  stop 
short  at  the  most  trivial  expenditure  ;  talk  desperately  of 
being  ruined  and  brought  upon  the  parish ;  and,  in  such 
moods,  will  not  pay  the  smallest  tradesman's  bill,  with- 
out violent  altercation.  He  is  in  fact  the  most  punctual 
and  discontented  paymaster  in  the  world ;  drawing  his 
coin  out  of  his  breeches  pocket  with  infinite  reluctance ; 
paying  to  the  uttermost  farthing,  but  accompanying  every 
guinea  with  a  growl. 

With  all  his  talk  of  economy,  however,  he  is  a  bounti- 
ful provider,  and  a  hospitable  housekeeper.  His  econo- 
my is  of  a  whimsical  kind,  its  chief  object  being  to  devise 
how  he  may  afford  to  be  extravagant ;  for  he  will  be- 
grudge himself  a  beefsteak  and  pint  of  port  one  day,  that 
he  may  roast  an  ox  whole,  broach  a  hogshead  of  ale,  and 
treat  all  his  neighbors  on  the  next. 

His  domestic  establishment  is  enormously  expensive ; 
not  so  much  from  any  great  outward  parade,  as  from  the 
great  consumption  of  solid  beef  and  pudding;  the  vast 
number  of  followers  he  feeds  and  clothes ;  and  his  singu- 
lar disposition  to  pay  hugely  for  small  services.  He  is  a 
most  kind  and  indulgent  master,  and,  provided  his  ser- 
vants humor  his  peculiarities,  flatter  his  vanity  a  little 
now  and  then,  and  do  not  peculate  grossly  on  him  before 
his  face,  they  may  manage  him  to  perfection.  Every 
thing  that  lives  on  him  seems  to  thrive  and  grow  fat. 
His  house-servants  are  well  paid,  and  pampered,  and 
have  little  to  do.     His  horses  are  sleek  and  lazy,  and 


JOHN  BULL,  437 

prance  slowly  before  his  state  carriage ;  and  liis  house- 
dogs sleep  quietly  about  the  door,  and  will  hardly  bark 
at  a  house-breaker. 

His  family  mansion  is  an  old  castellated  manor-house, 
gray  with  age,  and  of  a  most  venerable,  though  weather- 
beaten  appearance.  It  has  been  built  upon  no  regular 
plan,  but  is  a  vast  accumulation  of  parts,  erected  in  vari- 
ous tastes  and  ages.  The  centre  bears  evident  traces  of 
Saxon  architecture,  and  is  as  solid  as  ponderous  stone 
and  old  English  oak  can  make  it.  Like  all  the  relics  of 
that  style,  it  is  full  of  obscure  passages,  intricate  mazes, 
and  dusky  chambers ;  and  though  these  have  been  par- 
tially lighted  up  in  modern  days,  yet  there  are  many 
places  where  you  must  still  grope  in  the  dark.  Addi- 
tions have  been  made  to  the  original  edifice  from  time  to 
time,  and  great  alterations  have  taken  place ;  towers  and 
battlements  have  been  erected  during  wars  and  tumults  : 
wings  built  in  time  of  peace ;  and  out-houses,  lodges,  and 
offices,  run  up  according  to  the  whim  or  convenience  of 
different  generations,  until  it  has  become  one  of  the  most 
spacious,  rambling  tenements  imaginable.  An  entire 
wing  is  taken  up  with  the  family  chapel,  a  reverend  pile, 
that  must  have  been  exceedingly  sumptuous,  and,  indeed, 
in  spite  of  having  been  altered  and  simplified  at  various 
periods,  has  still  a  look  of  solemn  religious  pomp.  Its 
walls  within  are  stored  with  the  monuments  of  John's 
ancestors ;  and  it  is  snugly  fitted  up  with  soft  cushions 
and  well-lined  chairs,  where  such  of  his  family  as  are 


438  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

inclined  to  church  services,  may  doze  comfortably  in  the 
discharge  of  their  duties. 

To  keep  up  this  chapel  has  cost  John  much  money ; 
but  he  is  stanch  in  his  religion,  and  piqued  in  his  zeal, 
from  the  circumstance  that  many  dissenting  chapels 
have  been  erected  in  his  vicinity,  and  several  of  his 
neighbors,  with  whom  he  has  had  quarrels,  are  strong 
papists. 

To  do  the  duties  of  the  chapel  he  maintains,  at  a  large 
expense,  a  pious  and  portly  family  chaplain.  He  is  a 
most  learned  and  decorous  personage,  and  a  truly  well- 
bred  Christian,  who  always  backs  the  old  gentleman  in 
his  opinions,  winks  discreetly  at  his  little  peccadilloes, 
rebukes  the  children  when  refractory,  and  is  of  great  use 
in  exhorting  the  tenants  to  read  their  Bibles,  say  their 
prayers,  and,  above  all,  to  pay  their  rents  punctually, 
and  without  grumbling. 

The  family  apartments  are  in  a  very  antiquated  taste, 
somewhat  heavy,  and  often  inconvenient,  but  full  of  the 
solemn  magnificence  of  former  times ;  fitted  up  with  rich, 
though  faded  tapestry,  unwieldy  furniture,  and  loads  of 
massy  gorgeous  old  plate.  The  vast  fireplaces,  ample 
kitchens,  extensive  cellars,  and  sumptuous  banqueting 
halls,  all  speak  of  the  roaring  hospitality  of  days  of 
yore,  of  which  the  modern  festivity  at  the  manor-house 
is  but  a  shadow.  There  are,  however,  complete  suites  of 
rooms  apparently  deserted  and  time-worn;  and  towers 
and  turrets  that  are  tottering  to  decay ;  so  that  in  high 


JOHN  BULL.  439 

winds  there  is  danger  of  their  tumbling  about  the  ears  of 
the  household. 

John  has  frequently  been  advised  to  have  the  old  edi- 
fice thoroughly  overhauled ;  and  to  have  some  of  the  use- 
less parts  pulled  down,  and  the  others  strengthened  with 
their  materials;  but  the  old  gentleman  always  grows 
testy  on  this  subject.  He  swears  the  house  is  an  excel- 
lent house — that  it  is  tight  and  weather  proof,  and  not  to 
be  shaken  by  tempests — that  it  has  stood  for  several 
hundred  years,  and,  therefore,  is  not  likely  to  tumble 
down  now — that  as  to  its  being  inconvenient,  his  family 
is  accustomed  to  the  inconveniences,  and  would  not  be 
comfortable  without  them — that  as  to  its  unwieldy  size 
and  irregular  construction,  these  result  from  its  being 
the  growth  of  centuries,  and  being  improved  by  the  wis- 
dom of  every  generation — that  an  old  family,  like  his, 
requires  a  large  house  to  dwell  in ;  new,  upstart  families 
may  live  in  modern  cottages  and  snug  boxes ;  but  an  old 
English  family  should  inhabit  an  old  English  manor- 
house.  If  you  point  out  any  part  of  the  building  as 
superfluous,  he  insists  that  it  is  material  to  the  strength 
or  decoration  of  the  rest,  and  the  harmony  of  the  whole ; 
and  swears  that  the  parts  are  so  built  into  each  other, 
that  if  you  pull  down  one,  you  run  the  risk  of  having  the 
whole  about  your  ears. 

The  secret  of  the  matter  is,  that  John  has  a  great  dis- 
position to  protect  and  patronize.  He  thinks  it  indis- 
pensable to  the  dignity  of  an  ancient  and  honorable  fam- 


440  TEE  SKETCHBOOK. 

ily,  to  be  bounteous  in  its  appointments,  and  to  be  eaten 
up  by  dependents ;  and  so,  partly  from  pride,  and  partly 
from  kind-heartedness,  he  makes  it  a  rule  always  to 
give  shelter  and  maintenance  to  his  superannuated  ser- 
vants. 

The  consequence  is,  that,  like  many  other  venerable 
family  establishments,  his  manor  is  encumbered  by  old 
retainers  whom  he  cannot  turn  off,  and  an  old  style 
which  he  cannot  lay  down.  His  mansion  is  like  a  great 
hospital  of  invalids,  and,  with  all  its  magnitude,  is  not 
a  whit  too  large  for  its  inhabitants.  Not  a  nook  or  cor- 
ner but  is  of  use  in  housing  some  useless  personage. 
Groups  of  veteran  beef-eaters,  gouty  pensioners,  and  re- 
tired heroes  of  the  buttery  and  the  larder,  are  seen  loll- 
ing about  its  walls,  crawling  over  its  lawns,  dozing  under 
its  trees,  or  sunning  themselves  upon  the  benches  at  its 
doors.  Every  office  and  out-house  is  garrisoned  by  these 
supernumeraries  and  their  families;  for  they  are  amaz- 
ingly prolific,  and  when  they  die  off,  are  sure  to  leave 
John  a  legacy  of  hungry  mouths  to  be  provided  for.  A 
mattock  cannot  be  struck  against  the  most  mouldering 
tumble-down  tower,  but  out  pops,  from  some  cranny  or 
loop-hole,  the  gray  pate  of  some  superannuated  hanger- 
on,  who  has  lived  at  John's  expense  all  his  life,  and 
makes  the  most  grievous  outcry  at  their  pulling  down 
the  roof  from  over  the  head  of  a  worn-out  servant  of  the 
family.  This  is  an  appeal  that  John's  honest  heart  never 
can  withstand ;  so  that  a  man,  who  has  faithfully  eaten 


JOHN  BULL.  441 

his  beef  and  pudding  all  his  life,  is  sure  to  be  rewarded 
with  a  pipe  and  tankard  in  his  old  days. 

A  great  part  of  his  park,  also,  is  turned  into  paddocks, 
where  his  broken-down  chargers  are  turned  loose  to 
graze  undisturbed  for  the  remainder  of  their  existence — a 
worthy  example  of  grateful  recollection,  which  if  some  of 
his  neighbors  were  to  imitate,  would  not  be  to  their  dis- 
credit. Indeed,  it  is  one  of  his  great  pleasures  to  point 
out  these  old  steeds  to  his  visitors,  to  dwell  on  their 
good  qualities,  extol  their  past  services,  and  boast,  with 
some  little  vainglory,  of  the  perilous  adventures  and 
hardy  exploits  through  which  they  have  carried  him. 

He  is  given,  however,  to  indulge  his  veneration  for 
family  usages,  and  family  incumbrances,  to  a  whimsical 
extent.  His  manor  is  infested  by  gangs  of  gipsies ;  yet 
he  will  not  suffer  them  to  be  driven  off,  because  they 
have  infested  the  place  time  out  of  mind,  and  been 
regular  poachers  upon  every  generation  of  the  family. 
He  will  scarcely  permit  a  dry  branch  to  be  lopped  from 
the  great  trees  that  surround  the  house,  lest  it  should 
molest  the  rooks,  that  have  bred  there  for  centuries. 
Owls  have  taken  possession  of  the  dovecote ;  but  they 
are  hereditary  owls,  and  must  not  be  disturbed.  Swal- 
lows have  nearly  choked  up  every  chimney  with  their 
nests  ;  martins  build  in  every  frieze  and  cornice  ;  crows 
flutter  about  the  towers,  and  perch  on  every  weather- 
cock ;  and  old  gray-headed  rats  may  be  seen  in  every 
quarter  of  the  house,  running  in  and  out  of  their  holes 


442  THE  SKETCHBOOK. 

undauntedly  in  broad  daylight.  In  short,  John  ha&  ^nch 
a  reverence  for  every  thing  that  has  been  long  in  the 
family,  that  he  will  not  hear  even  of  abuses  being  re- 
formed, because  they  are  good  old  family  abuses. 

All  those  whims  and  habits  have  concurred  wofuUy  to 
drain  the  old  gentleman's  purse ;  and  as  he  prides  him- 
self on  punctuality  in  money  matters,  and  wishes  to 
maintain  his  credit  in  the  neighborhood,  they  have 
caused  him  great  perplexity  in  meeting  his  engage- 
ments. This,  too,  has  been  increased  by  the  alterca- 
tions and  heart-burnings  which  are  continually  taking 
place  in  his  family.  His  children  have  been  brought 
up  to  different  callings,  and  are  of  different  ways  of 
thinking;  and  as  they  have  always  been  allowed  to 
speak  their  minds  freely,  they  do  not  fail  to  exercise 
the  privilege  most  clamorously  in  the  present  posture 
of  his  affairs.  Some  stand  up  for  the  honor  of  the 
race,  and  are  clear  that  the  old  establishment  should 
be  kept  up  in  all  its  state,  whatever  may  be  the  cost; 
others,  who  are  more  prudent  and  considerate,  entreat 
the  old  gentleman  to  retrench  his  expenses,  and  to  put 
his  whole  system  of  housekeeping  on  a  more  moderate 
footing.  He  has,  indeed,  at  times,  seemed  inclined  to 
listen  to  their  opinions,  but  their  wholesome  advice  has 
been  completely  defeated  by  the  obstreperous  conduct 
of  one  of  his  sons.  This  is  a  noisy,  rattle-pated  fel- 
low, of  rather  low  habits,  who  neglects  his  business  to 
frequent  ale-houses — is  the  orator  of  village  clubs,  and 


JOHN  BULL.  443 

a  complete  oracle  among  the  poorest  of  his  father's 
tenants.  No  sooner  does  he  hear  any  of  his  brothers 
mention  reform  or  retrenchment,  than  up  he  jumps, 
takes  the  words  out  of  their  mouths,  and  roars  out 
for  an  overturn.  When  his  tongue  is  once  going  noth- 
ing can  stop  it.  He  rants  about  the  room ;  hectors  the 
old  man  about  his  spendthrift  practices;  ridicules  his 
tastes  and  pursuits ;  insists  that  he  shall  turn  the  old 
servants  out  of  doors ;  give  the  broken-down  horses  to 
the  hounds;  send  the  fat  chaplain  packing,  and  take  a 
field-preacher  in  his  place — nay,  that  the  whole  family 
mansion  shall  be  levelled  with  the  ground,  and  a  plain 
one  of  brick  and  mortar  built  in  its  place.  He  rails 
at  every  social  entertainment  and  family  festivity,  and 
skulks  away  growling  to  the  ale-house  whenever  an 
equipage  drives  up  to  the  door.  Though  constantly 
complaining  of  the  emptiness  of  his  purse,  yet  he  scru- 
ples not  to  spend  all  his  pocket-money  in  these  tavern 
convocations,  and  even  runs  up  scores  for  the  liquor  over 
which  he  preaches  about  his  father's  extravagance. 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  how  little  such  thwarting 
agrees  with  the  old  cavalier's  fiery  temperament.  He  has 
become  so  irritable,  from  repeated  crossings,  that  the 
mere  mention  of  retrenchment  or  reform  is  a  signal  for  a 
brawl  between  him  and  the  tavern  oracle.  As  the  latter 
is  too  sturdy  and  refractory  for  paternal  discipline,  hav- 
ing grown  out  of  all  fear  of  the  cudgel,  they  have  frequent 
scenes  of  wordy  warfare,  which  at  times  run  so  high,  that 


444  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Jolin  is  fain  to  call  in  the  aid  of  his  son  Tom,  an  officer 
who  has  served  abroad,  but  is  at  present  living  at  home, 
on  half-pay.  This  last  is  sure  to  stand  by  the  old  gentle- 
man, right  or  wrong ;  likes  nothing  so  much  as  a  racket- 
ing, roystering  life ;  and  is  ready  at  a  wink  or  nod,  to  out 
sabre,  and  flourish  it  over  the  orator's  head,  if  he  dares 
to  array  himself  against  paternal  authority. 

These  family  dissensions,  as  usual,  have  got  abroad, 
and  are  rare  food  for  scandal  in  John's  neighborhood. 
People  begin  to  look  wise,  and  shake  their  heads,  when- 
ever his  affairs  are  mentioned.  They  all  "hope  that 
matters  are  not  so  bad  with  him  as  represented;  but 
when  a  man's  own  children  begin  to  rail  at  his  extrava- 
gance, things  must  be  badly  managed.  They  understand 
he  is  mortgaged  over  head  and  ears,  and  is  continually 
dabbling  with  money  lenders.  He  is  certainly  an  open- 
handed  old  gentleman,  but  they  fear  he  has  lived  too 
fast ;  indeed,  they  never  knew  any  good  come  of  this 
fondness  for  hunting,  racing,  revelling  and  prize-fighting. 
In  short,  Mr.  Bull's  estate  is  a  very  fine  one,  and  has 
been  in  the  family  a  long  time ;  but,  for  all  that,  they 
have  known  many  finer  estates  come  to  the  hammer.'* 

What  is  worst  of  all,  is  the  effect  which  these  pecu- 
niary embarrassments  and  domestic  feuds  have  had  on 
the  poor  man  himself.  Instead  of  that  jolly  round  cor- 
poration, and  smug  rosy  face,  which  he  used  to  present, 
he  has  of  late  become  as  shrivelled  and  shrunk  as  a 
frost-bitten    apple.      His    scarlet   gold-laced  waistcoat, 


JOHN  BULL.  4A& 

which  bellied  out  so  bravely  in  those  prosperous  days 
when  he  sailed  before  the  wind,  now  hangs  loosely  about 
him  like  a  mainsail  in  a  calm.  His  leather  breeches  are 
all  in  folds  and  wrinkles,  and  apparently  have  much  ado 
to  hold  up  the  boots  that  yawn  on  both  sides  of  his  once 
sturdy  legs. 

Instead  of  strutting  about  as  formerly,  with  his  three- 
cornered  hat  on  one  side ;  flourishing  his  cudgel,  and 
bringing  it  down  every  moment  v/ith  a  hearty  thump 
upon  the  ground ;  looking  every  one  sturdily  in  the  face, 
and  trolling  out  a  stave  of  a  catch  or  a  drinking  song ;  he 
now  goes  about  whistling  thoughtfully  to  himself,  with 
his  head  drooping  down,  his  cudgel  tucked  under  his 
arm,  and  his  hands  thrust  to  the  bottom  of  his  breeches 
pockets,  which  are  evidently  empty. 

Such  is  the  plight  of  honest  John  Bull  at  present ;  yet 
for  all  this  the  old  fellow's  spirit  is  as  tall  and  as  gallant 
as  ever.  If  you  drop  the  least  expression  of  sympathy  or 
concern,  he  takes  fire  in  an  instant ;  swears  that  he  is  the 
richest  and  stoutest  fellow  in  the  country ;  talks  of  laying 
out  large  sums  to  adorn  his  house  or  buy  another  estate ; 
and  with  a  valiant  swagger  and  grasping  of  his  cudgel, 
longs  exceedingly  to  have  another  bout  at  quarter-staff. 

Though  there  may  be  something  rather  whimsical  in 
all  this,  yet  I  confess  I  cannot  look  upon  John's  situation 
without  strong  feelings  of  interest.  "With  all  his  odd 
humors  and  obstinate  prejudices,  he  is  a  sterling-hearted 
old  blade.    He  may  not  be  so  wonderfully  fine  a  fellow  as 


446  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

he  thinks  himself,  but  he  is  at  least  twice  as  good  as  his 
neighbors  represent  him.  His  virtues  are  all  his  own ; 
all  plain,  homebred,  and  unaffected.  His  very  faults 
smack  of  the  raciness  of  his  good  -qualities.  His  extra- 
vagance savors  of  his  generosity ;  his  quarrelsomeness  of 
his  courage ;  his  credulity  of  his  open  faith ;  his  vanity 
of  his  pride ;  and  his  bluntness  of  his  sincerity.  They 
are  all  the  redundancies  of  a  rich  and  liberal  character. 
He  is  like  his  own  oak,  rough  without,  but  sound  and 
solid  within ;  whose  bark  abounds  with  excrescences  in 
proportion  to  the  growth  and  grandeur  of  the  timber; 
and  whose  branches  make  a  fearful  groaning  and  mur- 
muring in  the  least  storm,  from  their  very  magnitude 
and  luxuriance.  There  is  something,  too,  in  the  appear- 
ance of  his  old  family  mansion  that  is  extremely  poeti- 
cal and  picturesque ;  and,  as  long  as  it  can  be  rendered 
comfortably  habitable,  I  should  almost  tremble  to  see  it 
meddled  with,  during  the  present  conflict  of  tastes  and 
opinions.  Some  of  his  advisers  are  no  doubt  good  archi- 
tects, that  might  be  of  service ;  but  many,  I  fear,  are  mere 
levellers,  who,  when  they  had  once  got  to  work  with  their 
mattocks  on  this  venerable  edifice,  would  never  stop 
until  they  had  brought  it  to  the  ground,  and  perhaps 
buried  themselves  among  the  ruins.  All  that  I  wish  is, 
that  John's  present  troubles  may  teach  him  more  pru- 
dence in  future.  That  he  may  cease  to  distress  his  mind 
about  other  people's  affairs;  that  he  may  give  up  the 
fruitless  attempt  to  promote  the  good  of  his  neighbors, 


JOHN  BULL.  447 

and  the  peace  and  happiness  of  the  world,  by  dint  of  the 
cudgel ;  that  he  may  remain  quietly  at  home ;  gradually 
get  his  house  into  repair;  cultivate  his  rich  estate  ac- 
cording to  his  fancy ;  husband  his  income — if  he  thinks 
proper ;  bring  his  unruly  children  into  order — if  he  can ; 
renew  the  jovial  scenes  of  ancient  prosperity ;  and  long 
enjoy,  on  his  paternal  lands,  a  green,  an  honorable,  and  a 
merry  old  age. 


THE    PRIDE    OF   THE    VILLAGE 

May  no  wolfe  howle  ;  no  screech  owle  stir 

A  wing  about  thy  sepulchre  ! 

No  boysterous  winds  or  stormes  come  hither, 

To  starve  or  wither 
Thy  soft  sweet  earth  !  but,  like  a  spring, 
Love  kept  it  ever  flourishing. 

Herrick. 


]|>p|gp^l  N  the  course  of  an  excursion  through  one  of  the 
IWii^K  remote  counties  of  England,  I  had  struck  into 
|;:kl^;^:;.|  one  of  those  cross-roads  that  lead  through 
the  more  secluded  parts  of  the  country,  and  stopped  one 
afternoon  at  a  village,  the  situation  of  which  was  beauti- 
fully rural  and  retired.  There  was  an  air  of  primitive 
simplicity  about  its  inhabitants,  not  to  be  found  in  the 
villages  which  lie  on  the  great  coach-roads.  I  deter- 
mined to  pass  the  night  there,  and,  having  taken  an  early 
dinner,  strolled  out  to  enjoy  the  neighboring  scenery. 

My  ramble,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  travellers,  soon 
ied  me  to  the  church,  which  stood  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  village.  Indeed,  it  was  an  object  of  some  curi- 
osity, its  old  tower  being  completely  overrun  with  ivy,  so 

that  only  here  and  there  a  jutting  buttress,  an  angle  of 

448  " 


TEE  PEIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE,  449 

gray  wall,  or  a  fantastically  carved  ornament,  peered 
through  the  verdant  covering.  It  was  a  lovely  evening. 
The  early  part  of  the  day  had  been  dark  and  showery, 
but  in  the  afternoon  it  had  cleared  up ;  and  though  sul- 
len clouds  still  hung  overhead,  yet  there  was  a  broad 
tract  of  golden  sky  in  the  west,  from  which  the  setting 
sun  gleamed  through  the  dripping  leaves,  and  lit  up  all 
nature  with  a  melancholy  smile.  It  seemed  like  the 
parting  hour  of  a  good  Christian,  smiling  on  the  sins  and 
sorrows  of  the  world,  and  giving,  in  the  serenity  of  his 
decline,  an  assurance  that  he  will  rise  again  in  glory. 

I  had  seated  myself  on  a  half-sunken  tombstone,  and 
was  musing,  as  one  is  apt  to  do  at  this  sober-thoughted 
hour,  on  past  scenes  and  early  friends — on  those  who 
were  distant  and  those  who  were  dead — and  indulging  in 
that  kind  of  melancholy  fancying,  which  has  in  it  some- 
thing sweeter  even  than  pleasure.  Every  now  and  then, 
the  stroke  of  a  bell  from  the  neighboring  tower  fell  on 
my  ear ;  its  tones  were  in  unison  with  the  scene,  and,  in- 
stead of  jarring,  chimed  in  with  my  feelings ;  and  it  was 
some  time  before  I  recollected  that  it  must  be  tolling  the 
knell  of  some  new  tenant  of  the  tomb. 

Presently  I  saw  a  funeral  train  moving  across  the  vil- 
lage green ;  it  wound  slo"wly  along  a  lane ;  was  lost,  and 
reappeared  through  the  breaks  of  the  hedges,  until  it 
passed  the  place  where  I  was  sitting.  The  pall  was  sup- 
ported by  young  girls,  dressed  in  white ;  and  another, 
about  the  age  of  seventeen,  walked  before,  bearing  a 
29 


450  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ohaplet  of  white  flowers ;  a  token  tliat  tlie  deceased  was  a 
young  and  unmarried  female.  The  corpse  was  followed 
by  the  parents.  They  were  a  venerable  couple  of  the 
better  order  of  peasantry.  The  father  seemed  to  repress 
his  feelings;  but  his  fixed  eye,  contracted  brow,  and 
deeply-furrowed  face,  showed  the  struggle  that  was  pass- 
ing within.  His  wife  hung  on  his  arm,  and  wept  aloud 
with  the  convulsive  bursts  of  a  mother's  sorrow. 

I  followed  the  funeral  into  the  church.  The  bier  was 
placed  in  the  centre  aisle,  and  the  chaplet  of  white  flow- 
ers, with  a  pair  of  white  gloves,  were  hung  over  the  seat 
which  the  deceased  had  occupied. 

Every  one  knows  the  soul-subduing  pathos  of  the  fu- 
neral service ;  for  who  is  so  fortunate  as  never  to  have 
followed  some  one  he  has  loved  to  the  tomb  ?  but  when 
performed  over  the  remains  of  innocence  and  beauty, 
thus  laid  low  in  the  bloom  of  existence — what  can  be 
more  affecting?  At  that  simple,  but  most  solemn  consign- 
ment of  the  body  to  the  grave — "Earth  to  earth — ashes 
to  ashes^ — dust  to  dust !  " — the  tears  of  the  youthful  com- 
panions of  the  deceased  flowed  unrestrained.  The  father 
still  seemed  to  struggle  with  his  feelings,  and  to  comfort 
himself  with  the  assurance,  that  the  dead  are  blessed 
which  die  in  the  Lord ;  but  the  mother  only  thought  of 
her  child  as  a  flower  of  the  field  cut  down  and  withered 
in  the  midst  of  its  sweetness;  she  was  like  Kachel, 
"mourning  over  her  children,  and  would  not  be  com- 
forted." 


THE  PBIDE  OF  TEE   VILLAGE.  451 

On  returning  to  the  inn,  I  learned  the  whole  story  of 
the  deceased.  It  was  a  simple  one,  and  such  as  has  often 
been  told.  She  had  been  the  beauty  and  pride  of  the 
village.  Her  father  had  once  been  an  opulent  farmer, 
but  was  reduced  in  circumstances.  This  was  an  only 
child,  and  brought  up  entirely  at  home,  in  the  simplicity 
of  rural  life.  She  had  been  the  pupil  of  the  village  pas- 
tor, the  favorite  lamb  of  his  little  flock.  The  good  man 
watched  over  her  education  with  paternal  care ;  it  was 
limited,  and  suitable  to  the  sphere  in  which  she  was  to 
move ;  for  he  only  sought  to  make  her  an  ornament  to 
her  station  in  life,  not  to  raise  her  above  it.  The  tender- 
ness and  indulgence  of  her  parents,  and  the  exemption 
from  all  ordinary  occupations,  had  fostered  a  natural 
grace  and  delicacy  of  character,  that  accorded  with  the 
fragile  loveliness  of  her  form.  She  appeared  Uke  some 
tender  plant  of  the  garden,  blooming  accidentally  amid 
the  hardier  natives  of  the  fields. 

The  superiority  of  her  charms  was  felt  and  acknowl- 
edged by  her  companions,  but  without  envy ;  for  it  was 
surpassed  by  the  unassuming  gentleness  and  winning 
kindness  of  her  manners.     It  might  be  truly  said  of  her : 

"  This  is  the  prettiest  low-bom  lass,  that  ever 
Ean  on  the  green-sward  ;  nothing  she  does  or  seems, 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself  ; 
Too  noble  for  this  place. 

The  village  was  one  of  those  sequestered  spots,  which 


452  THE  SKETGH-BOOK. 

still  retain  some  vestiges  of  old  Englisli  customs.  It  had 
its  rural  festivals  and  holiday  pastimes,  and  still  kept  up 
some  faint  observance  of  the  once  popular  rites  of  May. 
These,  indeed,  had  been  promoted  by  its  present  pastor, 
who  was  a  lover  of  old  customs,  and  one  of  those  simple 
Christians  that  think  their  mission  fulfilled  by  promoting 
joy  on  earth  and  good-will  among  mankind.  Under  his 
auspices  the  May-pole  stood  from  year  to  year  in  the 
centre  of  the  village  green ;  on  May-day  it  was  decorated 
with  garlands  and  streamers ;  and  a  queen  or  lady  of  the 
May  was  appointed,  as  in  former  times,  to  preside  at  the 
sports,  and  distribute  the  prizes  and  rewards.  The  pic- 
turesque situation  of  the  village,  and  the  fancifulness  of 
its  rustic  fetes,  would  often  attract  the  notice  of  casual 
visitors.  Among  these,  on  one  May-day,  was  a  young 
officer,  whose  regiment  had  been  recently  quartered  in 
the  neighborhood.  He  was  charmed  with  the  native 
taste  that  pervaded  this  village  pageant ;  but,  above  all, 
with  the  dawning  loveliness  of  the  queen  of  May.  It  was 
the  village  favorite,  who  was  crowned  with  flowers,  and 
blushing  and  smiling  in  all  the  beautiful  confusion  of 
girlish  diffidence  and  delight.  The  artlessness  of  rural 
habits  enabled  him  readily  to  make  her  acquaintance ; 
he  gradually  won  his  way  into  her  intimacy ;  and  paid 
his  court  to  her  in  that  unthinking  way  in  which  young 
officers  are  too  apt  to  trifle  with  rustic  simplicity. 

There  was  nothing  in  his  advances  to  startle  or  alarm. 
He  never  even  talked  of  love  :  but  there  are  modes  of 


THE  PBIDE  OF  THE   VILLAGE.  453 

making  it  more  eloquent  than  language,  and  which  con- 
vey it  subtilely  and  irresistibly  to  the  heart.  The  beam 
of  the  eye,  the  tone  of  voice,  the  thousand  tendernesses 
which  emanate  from  every  word,  and  look,  and  action — 
these  form  the  true  eloquence  of  love,  and  can  always  be 
felt  and  understood,  but  never  described.  Can  we  won- 
der that  they  should  readily  win  a  heart,  young,  guile- 
less, and  susceptible  ?  As  to  her,  she  loved  almost  un- 
consciously ;  she  scarcely  inquired  what  was  the  growing 
passion  that  was  absorbing  every  thought  and  feeling,  or 
what  were  to  be  its  consequences.  She,  indeed,  looked 
not  to  the  future.  When  present,  his  looks  and  words 
occupied  her  whole  attention ;  when  absent,  she  thought 
but  of  what  had  passed  at  their  recent  interview.  She 
would  wander  with  him  through  the  green  lanes  and 
rural  scenes  of  the  vicinity.  He  taught  her  to  see  new 
beauties  in  nature ;  he  talked  in  the  language  of  polite 
and  cultivated  life,  and  breathed  into  her  ear  the  witch- 
eries of  romance  and  poetry. 

Perhaps  there  could  not  have  been  a  passion,  between 
the  sexes,  more  pure  than  this  innocent  girl's.  The  gal- 
lant figure  of  her  youthful  admirer,  and  the  splendor  of 
his  military  attire,  might  at  first  have  charmed  her  eye ; 
but  it  was  not  these  that  had  captivated  her  heart.  Her 
attachment  had  something  in  it  of  idolatry.  She  looked 
up  to  him  as  to  a  being  of  a  superior  order.  She  felt  in 
his  society  the  enthusiasm  of  a  mind  naturally  delicate 
and  poetical,  and  now  first  awakened  to  a  keen  percep- 


454  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

tion  of  tlie  beautiful  and  grand.  Of  the  sordid  distinc- 
tions of  rank  and  fortune  she  thought  nothing;  it  was 
the  difference  of  intellect,  of  demeanor,  of  manners,  from 
those  of  the  rustic  society  to  which  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed, that  elevated  him  in  her  opinion.  She  would  lis- 
ten to  him  with  charmed  ear  and  downcast  look  of  mute 
delight,  and  her  cheek  would  mantle  with  enthusiasm; 
or  if  ever  she  ventured  a  shy  glance  of  timid  admiration, 
it  was  as  quickly  withdrawn,  and  she  would  sigh  and 
blush  at  the  idea  of  her  comparative  unworthiness. 

Her  lover  was  equally  impassioned ;  but  his  passion 
was  mingled  with  feelings  of  a  coarser  nature.  He  had 
begun  the  connection  in  levity ;  for  he  had  often  heard 
his  brother  officers  boast  of  their  village  conquests,  and 
thought  some  triumph  of  the  kind  necessary  to  his  repu- 
tation as  a  man  of  spirit.  But  he  was  too  full  of  youthful 
fervor.  His  heart  had  not  yet  been  rendered  sufficiently 
cold  and  selfish  by  a  wandering  and  a  dissipated  life  :  it 
caught  fire  from  the  very  flame  it  sought  to  kindle ;  and 
before  he  was  aware  of  the  nature  of  his  situation,  he  be- 
came really  in  love. 

What  was  he  to  do?  There  were  the  old  obstacles 
which  so  incessantly  occur  in  these  heedless  attach- 
ments. His  rank  in  life — the  prejudices  of  titled  con- 
nections— his  dependence  upon  a  proud  and  unyielding 
father — all  forbade  him  to  think  of  matrimony: — ^but 
when  he  looked  down  upon  this  innocent  being,  so 
tender  and  confiding,  there  was  a  purity  in  her  man- 


TEE  PRIDE  OF  THE   VILLAGE.  455 

ners,  a  blamelessness  in  her  life,  and  a  beseeching  mod- 
esty in  her  looks  that  awed  down  every  licentious  feeling. 
In  vain  did  he  try  to  fortify  himself  by  a  thousand  heart- 
less examples  of  men  of  fashion ;  and  to  chill  the  glow  of 
generous  sentiment  with  that  cold  derisive  levity  with 
which  he  had  heard  them  talk  of  female  virtue :  when- 
ever he  came  into  her  presence,  she  was  still  surrounded 
by  that  mysterious  but  impassive  charm  of  virgin  purity 
in  whose  hallowed  sphere  no  guilty  thought  can  live. 

The  sudden  arrival  of  orders  for  the  regiment  to  repair 
to  the  continent  completed  the  confusion  of  his  mind.  He 
remained  for  a  short  time  in  a  state  of  the  most  painful 
irresolution ;  he  hesitated  to  communicate  the  tidings, 
until  the  day  for  marching  was  at  hand ;  when  he  gave 
her  the  intelligence  in  the  course  of  an  evening  ramble. 

The  idea  of  parting  had  never  before  occurred  to  her. 
It  broke  in  at  once  upon  her  dream  of  felicity;  she 
looked  upon  it  as  a  sudden  and  insurmountable  evil,  and 
wept  with  the  guileless  simplicity  of  a  child.  He  drew 
her  to  his  bosom,  and  kissed  the  tears  from  her  soft 
cheek ;  nor  did  he  meet  with  a  repulse,  for  there  are  mo- 
ments of  mingled  sorrow  and  tenderness,  which  hallow 
the  caresses  of  affection.  He  was  naturally  impetuous ; 
and  the  sight  of  beauty,  apparently  yielding  in  his  arms, 
the  confidence  of  his  power  over  her,  and  the  dread  of 
losing  her  for  ever,  all  conspired  to  overwhelm  his  better 
feelings — he  ventured  to  propose  that  she  should  leave 
her  home,  and  be  the  companion  of  his  fortunes. 


456  ^^^  8EETCE-B00R. 

He  was  quite  a  novice  in  seduction,  and  blushed  and 
faltered  at  his  own  baseness;  but  so  innocent  of  mind 
was  his  intended  victim,  that  she  was  at  first  at  a  loss  to 
comprehend  his  meaning ;  and  why  she  should  leave  her 
native  village,  and  the  humble  roof  of  her  parents.  When 
at  last  the  nature  of  his  proposal  flashed  upon  her  pure 
mind,  the  effect  was  withering.  She  did  not  weep — she 
did  not  break  forth  into  reproach — she  said  not  a  word — 
but  she  shrunk  back  aghast  as  from  a  viper ;  gave  him  a 
look  of  anguish  that  pierced  to  his  very  soul ;  and,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  in  agony,  fled,  as  if  for  refuge,  to  her 
father's  cottage. 

The  officer  retired,  confounded,  humiliated,  and  repent- 
ant. It  is  uncertain  what  might  have  been  the  result  of 
the  conflict  of  his  feelings,  had  not  his  thoughts  been 
diverted  by  the  bustle  of  departure.  New  scenes,  new 
pleasures,  and  new  companions,  soon  dissipated  his  self- 
reproach,  and  stifled  his  tenderness ;  yet,  amidst  the  stir 
of  camps,  the  revelries  of  garrisons,  the  array  of  armies, 
and  even  the  din  of  battles,  his  thoughts  would  some- 
times steal  back  to  the  scenes  of  rural  quiet  and  village 
simplicity — the  white  cottage — the  footpath  along  the 
silver  brook  and  up  the  hawthorn  hedge,  and  the  little 
village  maid  loitering  along  it,  leaning  on  his  arm,  and 
listening  to  him  with  eyes  beaming  with  unconscious 
affection. 

The  shock  which  the  poor  girl  had  received,  in  the 
destruction  of  all  her  ideal  world,  had  indeed  been  cruel 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE   VILLAGE.  457 

Faintings  and  hysterics  had  at  first  shaken  her  tender 
frame,  and  were  succeeded  by  a  settled  and  pining  melan- 
choly. She  had  beheld  from  her  window  the  march  of 
the  departing  troops.  She  had  seen  her  faithless  lover 
borne  off,  as  if  in  triumph,  amidst  the  sound  of  drum  and 
trumpet,  and  the  pomp  of  arms.  She  strained  a  last 
aching  gaze  after  him,  as  the  morning  sun  glittered  about 
his  figure,  and  his  plume  waved  in  the  breeze  ;  he  passed 
away  like  a  bright  vision  from  her  sight,  and  left  her  all 
in  darkness. 

It  would  be  trite  to  dwell  on  the  particulars  of  her 
after  story.  It  was,  like  other  tales  of  love,  melancholy. 
She  avoided  society,  and  wandered  out  alone  in  the  walks 
she  had  most  frequented  with  her  lover.  She  sought, 
like  the  stricken  deer,  to  weep  in  silence  and  loneliness, 
and  brood  over  the  barbed  sorrow  that  rankled  in  her 
soul.  Sometimes  she  would  be  seen  late  of  an  evening 
sitting  in  the  porch  of  the  village  church ;  and  the  milk- 
maids, returning  from  the  fields,  would  now  and  then 
overhear  her  singing  some  plaintive  ditty  in  the  hawthorn 
walk.  She  became  fervent  in  her  devotions  at  church ; 
and  as  the  old  people  saw  her  approach,  so  wasted  away, 
yet  with  a  hectic  bloom,  and  that  hallowed  air  which  mel- 
ancholy diffuses  round  the  form,  they  would  make  way 
for  her,  as  for  something  spiritual,  and,  looking  after  her, 
would  shake  their  heads  in  gloomy  foreboding. 

She  felt  a   conviction  that   she  was  hastening  to  the  , 
tomb,  but  looked  forward  to  it  as  place  of  rest.     The  sil- 


468  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

ver  cord  that  had  bound  her  to  existence  was  loosed,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  no  more  pleasure  under  the  sun.  If 
ever  her  gentle  bosom  had  entertained  resentment  against 
her  lover,  it  was  extinguished.  She  was  incapable  of  an- 
gry passions ;  and  in  a  moment  of  saddened  tenderness, 
she  penned  him  a  farewell  letter.  It  was  couched  in  the 
simplest  language,  but  touching  from  its  very  simplicity. 
She  told  him  that  she  was  dying,  and  did  not  conceal 
from  him  that  his  conduct  was  the  cause.  She  even  de- 
picted the  sufferings  which  she  had  experienced;  but 
concluded  with  saying,  that  she  could  not  die  in  peace, 
until  she  had  sent  him  her  forgiveness  and  her  blessing. 

By  degrees  her  strength  declined,  that  she  could  no 
longer  leave  the  cottage.  She  could  only  totter  to  the 
window,  where,  propped  up  in  her  chair,  it  was  her  en- 
joyment to  sit  all  day  and  look  out  upon  the  landscape. 
Still  she  uttered  no  complaint,  nor  imparted  to  any  one 
the  malady  that  was  preying  on  her  heart.  She  never 
even  mentioned  her  lover's  name ;  but  would  lay  her 
head  on  her  mother's  bosom  and^weep  in  silence.  Her 
poor  parents  hung,  in  mute  anxiety,  over  this  fading 
blossom  of  their  hopes,  still  flattering  themselves  that  it 
might  again  revive  to  freshness,  and  that  the  bright  un- 
earthly bloom  which  sometimes  flushed  her  cheek  might 
be  the  promise  of  returning  health. 

In  this  way  she  was  seated  between  them  one  Sunday 
afternoon ;  her  hands  were  clasped  in  theirs,  the  lattice 
was  thrown  open,  and  the  soft  air  that  stole  in  brought 


TEE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.  459 

with  it  the  fragrance  of  the  clustering  honeysuckle  which 
her  own  hands  had  trained  round  the  window. 

Her  father  had  just  been  reading  a  chapter  in  the 
Bible ;  it  spoke  of  the  vanity  of  worldly  things,  and  of 
the  joys  of  heaven :  it  seemed  to  have  diffused  comfort 
and  serenity  through  her  bosom.  Her  eye  was  fixed  on 
the  distant  village  church ;  the  bell  had  tolled  for  the 
evening  service ;  the  last  villager  was  lagging  into  the 
porch;  and  every  thing  had  sunk  into  that  hallowed 
stillness  peculiar  to  the  day  of  rest.  Her  parents  were 
gazing  on  her  with  yearning  hearts.  Sickness  and  sor- 
row, which  pass  so  roughly  over  some  faces,  had  given 
to  hers  the  expression  of  a  seraph's.  A  tear  trembled 
in  her  soft  blue  eye. — "Was  she  thinking  of  her  faith- 
less lover? — or  were  her  thoughts  wandering  to  that  dis- 
tant church-yard,  into  whose  bosom  she  might  soon  be 
gathered  ? 

Suddenly  the  clang  of  hoofs  was  heard — a  horseman 
galloped  to  the  cottage — he  dismounted  before  the  win 
dow — the  poor  girl  gave  a  faint  exclamation,  and  sunk 
back  in  her  chair :  it  was  her  repentant  lover !  He 
rushed  into  the  house,  and  flew  to  clasp  her  to  his 
bosom ;  but  her  wasted  form — her  deathlike  counte- 
nance— so  wan,  yet  so  lovely  in  its  desolation, — smote 
him  to  the  soul,  and  he  threw  himself  in  agony  at  her 
feet.  She  was  too  faint  to  rise — she  attempted  to  ex- 
tend her  trembling  hand — her  lips  moved  as  if  she  spoke, 
but  no  word  was  articulated- —she  looked  down  upon  him 


460  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

with  a  smile  of  unutterable  tenderness, — and  closed  lier 
eyes  for  ever ! 

Such  are  the  particulars  which  I  gathered  of  this  vil- 
lage story.  They  are  but  scanty,  and  I  am  conscious 
have  little  novelty  to  recommend  them.  In  the  present 
rage  also  for  strange  incident  and  high-seasoned  narra- 
tive, they  may  appear  trite  and  insignificant,  but  they 
interested  me  strongly  at  the  time ;  and,  taken  in  con- 
nection with  the  affecting  ceremony  which  I  had  just 
witnessed,  left  a  deeper  impression  on  my  mind  than 
many  circumstances  of  a  more  striking  nature.  I  have 
passed  through  the  place  since,  and  visited  the  church 
again,  from  a  better  motive  than  mere  curiosity.  It  was 
a  wintry  evening ;  the  trees  were  stripped  of  their  foli- 
age ;  the  church-yard  looked  naked  and  mournful,  and 
the  wind  rustled  coldly  through  the  dry  grass.  Ever- 
greens, however,  had  been  planted  about  the  grave  of  the 
village  favorite,  and  osiers  were  bent  over  it  to  keep  the 
turf  uninjured. 

The  church  door  was  open,  and  I  stepped  in.  There 
hung  the  chaplet  of  flowers  and  the  gloves,  as  on  the  day 
of  the  funeral :  the  flowers  were  withered,  it  is  true,  but 
care  seemed  to  have  been  taken  that  no  dust  should  soil 
their  whiteness.  I  have  seen  many  monuments,  where 
art  has  exhausted  its  powers  to  awaken  the  sympathy  of 
the  spectator,  but  I  have  met  with  none  that  spoke  more 
touchingly  to  my  heart,  than  this  simple  but  delicate 
memento  of  departed  innocence. 


THE    ANGLEE. 

This  day  dame  Nature  seem'd  in  love, 

The  lusty  sap  began  to  move, 

Fresh  juice  did  stir  th'  embracing  vines 

And  birds  had  drawn  their  valentines. 

The  jealous  trout  that  low  did  lie, 

Rose  at  a  well-dissembled  flie. 

There  stood  my  friend,  with  patient  skill, 

Attending  of  his  trembling  quill. 

Sir  H.  Wotton. 


T  is  said  that  many  an  unlucky  urchin  is  in- 
duced to  run  away  from  his  family,  and  betake 
himself  to  a  seafaring  life,  from  reading  the  his- 
tory of  Kobinson  Crusoe ;  and  I  suspect  that,  in  like 
manner,  many  of  those  worthy  gentlemen  who  are  given 
to  haunt  the  sides  of  pastoral  streams  with  angle  rods  in 
hand,  may  trace  the  origin  of  their  passion  to  the  seduc- 
tive pages  of  honest  Izaak  Walton.  I  recollect  studying 
his  "  Complete  Angler "  several  years  since,  in  company 
with  a  knot  of  friends  in  America,  and  moreover  that  we 
were  all  completely  bitten  with  the  angling  mania.  It 
was  early  in  the  year ;  but  as  soon  as  the  weather  was 
auspicious,  and  that  the  spring  began  to  melt  into  the 
verge  of  summer,  we  took  rod  in  hand  and  sallied  into 

461 


462  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  country,  as  stark  mad  as  was  ever  Don  Quixote  from 
reading  books  of  chivalry. 

One  of  our  party  had  equalled  the  Don  in  the  fulness 
of  his  equipments  :  being  attired  cap-a-pie  for  the  enter- 
prise. He  wore  a  broad-skirted  fustian  coat,  perplexed 
with  half  a  hundred  pockets ;  a  pair  of  stout  shoes,  and 
leathern  gaiters ;  a  basket  slung  on  one  side  for  fish ;  a 
patent  rod,  a  landing  net,  and  a  score  of  other  inconve- 
niences, only  to  be  found  in  the  true  angler's  armory. 
Thus  harnessed  for  the  field,  he  was  as  great  a  matter  of 
stare  and  wonderment  among  the  country  folk,  who  had 
never  seen  a  regular  angler,  as  was  the  steel-clad  hero  of 
La  Mancha  among  the  goatherds  of  the  Sierra  Morena. 

Our  first  essay  was  along  a  mountain  brook,  among  the 
highlands  of  the  Hudson ;  a  most  unfortunate  place  for 
the  execution  of  those  piscatory  tactics  which  had  been 
invented  along  the  velvet  margins  of  quiet  English  rivu- 
lets. It  was  one  of  those  wild  streams  that  lavish,  among 
our  romantic  solitudes,  unheeded  beauties,  enough  to  fill 
the  sketch-book  of  a  hunter  of  the  picturesque.  Some- 
times it  would  leap  down  rocky  shelves,  making  small 
cascades,  over  which  the  trees  threw  their  broad  balan- 
cing sprays,  and  long  nameless  weeds  hung  in  fringes 
from  the  impending  banks,  dripping  with  diamond  drops. 
Sometimes  it  would  brawl  and  fret  along  a  ravine  in  the 
matted  shade  of  a  forest,  filling  it  with  murmurs ;  and, 
after  this  termagant  career,  would  steal  forth  into  open 
day  with  the  most  placid  demure  face  imaginable ;  as  I 


THE  ANOLEB.  463 

have  seen  some  pestilent  shrew  of  a  housewife,  after  fill- 
ing her  home  with  uproar  and  ill-humor,  come  dimpling 
out  of  doors,  swimming  and  courtesying,  and  smiling 
upon  all  the  world. 

How  smoothly  would  this  vagrant  brook  glide,  at  such 
times,  through  some  bosom  of  green  meadow-land  among 
the  mountains :  where  the  quiet  was  only  interrupted  by 
the  occasional  tinkling  of  a  bell  from  the  lazy  cattle 
among  the  clover,  or  the  sound  of  a  woodcutter's  axe 
from  the  neighboring  forest. 

For  my  part,  I  was  always  a  bungler  at  all  kinds  of 
sport  that  required  either  patience  or  adroitness,  and  had 
not  angled  above  half  an  hour  before  I  had  completely 
"satisfied  the  sentiment,"  and  convinced  myself  of  the 
truth  of  Izaak  Walton's  opinion,  that  angling  is  some- 
thing like  poetry — a  man  must  be  born  to  it.  I  hooked 
myself  instead  of  the  fish ;  tangled  my  line  in  every  tree ; 
lost  my  bait ;  broke  my  rod  ;  until  I  gave  up  the  attempt 
in  despair,  and  passed  the  day  under  the  trees,  reading 
old  Izaak;  satisfied  that  it  was  his  fascinating  Vein  of 
honest  simplicity  and  rural  feeling  that  had  bewitched 
me,  and  not  the  passion  for  angling.  My  companions, 
however,  were  more  persevering  in  their  delusion.  I 
have  them  at  this  moment  before  my  eyes,  stealing  along 
the  border  of  the  brook,  where  it  lay  open  to  the  day,  or 
was  merely  fringed  by  shrubs  and  bushes.  I  see  the  bit- 
tern rising  with  hollow  scream  as  they  break  in  upon  his 
rarely-invaded  haunt ;  the  kingfisher  watching  them  sus- 


464  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

piciously  from  his  dry  tree  that  overhangs  the  deep 
black  mill-pond,  in  the  gorge  of  the  hills;  the  tortoise 
letting  himself  slip  sideways  from  off  the  stone  or  log  on 
which  he  is  sunning  himself;  and  the  panic-struck  frog 
plumping  in  headlong  as  they  approach,  and  spreading 
an  alarm  throughout  the  watery  world  around. 

I  recollect  also,  that,  after  toiling  and  watching  and 
creeping  about  for  the  greater  part  of  a  day,  with 
scarcely  any  success,  in  spite  of  all  our  admirable  appa- 
ratus, a  lubberly  country  urchin  came  down  from  the 
hills  with  a  rod  made  from  a  branch  of  a  tree,  a  few 
yards  of  twine,  and,  as  Heaven  shall  help  me !  I  believe, 
a  crooked  pin  for  a  hook,  baited  with  a  vile  earthworm — 
and  in  half  an  hour  caught  more  fish  than  we  had  nibbles 
throughout  the  day ! 

But,  above  ail,  I  recollect,  the  "  good,  honest,  whole- 
some, hungry"  repast,  which  we  made  under  a  beech- 
tree,  just  by  a  spring  of  pure  sweet  water  that  stole  out 
of  the  side  of  a  hill ;  and  how,  when  it  was  over,  one  of 
the  party  read  old  Izaak  Walton's  scene  with  the  milk- 
maid, while  I  lay  on  the  grass  and  built  castles  in  a 
bright  pile  of  clouds,  until  I  fell  asleep.  All  this  may  ap- 
pear like  mere  egotism ;  yet  I  cannot  refrain  from  utter- 
ing these  recollections,  which  are  passing  like  a  strain  of 
music  over  my  mind,  and  have  been  called  up  by  an 
agreeable  scene  which  I  witnessed  not  long  since. 

In  a  morning's  stroll  along  the  banks  of  the  Alun,  a 
beautiful  little  stream  which  flows  down  from  the  Welsh 


TBE  ANGLER.  465 

hills  and  throws  itself  into  the  Dee,  my  attention  was  at- 
tracted to  a  group  seated  on  the  margin.  On  approach- 
ing, I  found  it  to  consist  of  a  veteran  angler  and  two 
rustic  disciples.  The  former  was  an  old  fellow  with  a 
wooden  leg,  with  clothes  very  much  but  very  carefully 
patched,  betokening  poverty,  honestly  come  by,  and  de- 
cently maintained.  His  face  bore  the  marks  of  former 
storms,  but  present  fair  weather ;  its  furrows  had  been 
worn  into  an  habitual  smile;  his  iron-gray  locks  hung 
about  his  ears,  and  he  had  altogether  the  good-humored 
air  of  a  constitutional  philosopher  who  was  disposed  to 
take  the  world  as  it  went.  One  of  his  companions  Avas 
a  tagged  wight,  with  the  skulking  look  of  an  arrant 
poacher,  and  I'll  warrant  could  find  his  way  to  any  gen- 
tleman's fish-pond  in  the  neighborhood  in  the  darkest 
night.  The  .other  was  a  tall,  awkward  country  lad,  with  a 
lounging  gait,  and  apparently  somewhat  of  a  rustic  beau. 
The  old  man  was  busy  in  examining  the  maw  of  a  trout 
which  he  had  just  killed,  to  discover  by  its  contents  what 
insects  were  seasonable  for  bait ;  and  was  lecturing  on 
the  subject  to  his  companions,  who  appeared  to  listen 
with  infinite  deference.  I  have  a  kind  feeling  towards  all 
"brothers  of  the  angle,"  ever  since  I  read  Izaak  Walton. 
They  are  men,  he  affirms,  of  a  "  mild,  sweet,  and  peace- 
able spirit ; "  and  my  esteem  for  them  has  been  increased 
since  I  met  with  an  old  "  Tretyse  of  fishing  with  the  An- 
gle," in  which  are  set  forth  many  of  the  maxims  of  their 
inoffensive  fraternity.  "Take  good  hede,"  sayeth  this 
^  80 


466  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

honest  little  tretyse,  "  that  in  going  about  your  disportes 
ye  open  no  man's  gates  but  that  ye  shet  them  again. 
Also  ye  shall  not  use  this  forsayd  crafti  disport  for  no 
covetousness  to  the  encreasing  and  sparing  of  your  money 
only,  but  principally  for  your  solace,  and  to  cause  the 
helth  of  your  body  and  specyally  of  your  soule."  * 

I  thought  that  I  could  perceive  in  the  veteran  angler 
before  me  an  exemplification  of  what  I  had  read;  and 
there  was  a  cheerful  contentedness  in  his  looks  that  quite 
drew  me  towards  him.  I  could  not  but  remark  the  gal- 
lant manner  in  which  he  stumped  from  one  part  of  the 
brook  to  another;  waving  his  rod  in  the  air,  to  keep 
the  line  from  dragging  on  the  ground,  or  catching  among 
the  bushes;  and  the  adroitness  with  which  he  would 
throw  his  fly  to  any  particular  place  ;  sometimes  skim- 
ming it  lightly  along  a  little  rapid ;  sometimes  casting  it 
into  one  of  those  dark  holes  made  by  a  twisted  root  or 
overhanging  bank,  in  which  the  large  trout  are  apt  to 
lurk.  In  the  meanwhile  he  was  giving  instructions  to  his 
two  disciples;  showing  them  the  manner  in  which  they 
should  handle  their  rods,  fix  their  flies,  and  play  them 
along  the  surface  of  the  stream.     The  scene  brought  to 

*  From  this  same  treatise,  it  would  appear  that  angling  is  a  more  in- 
dustrious and  devout  employment  than  it  is  generally  considered. — "For 
when  ye  purpose  to  go  on  your  disportes  in  fishynge  ye  will  not  desyre 
greatly e  many  persons  with  you,  which  might  let  you  of  your  game.  And 
that  ye  may  serve  God  devoutly  in  sayinge  effectually  your  customable 
prayers.  And  thus  doying,  ye  shall  eschew  and  also  avoyde  many  vices, 
as  ydelnes,  which  is  principail  cause  to  induce  man  to  many  other  vicea^ 
ae  it  is  right  well  known." 


THE  ANOLER.  467 

my  mind  the  instructions  of  the  sage  Piscator  to  his 
scholar.  ,  The  country  round  was  of  that  pastoral  kind 
which  Walton  is  fond  of  describing.  It  was  a  part  of  the 
great  plain  of  Cheshire,  close  by  the  beautiful  vale  of 
Gessford,  and  just  where  the  inferior  Welsh  hills  begin  to 
swell  up  from  among  fresh-smelling  meadows.  The  day, 
too,  like  that  recorded  in  his  work,  was  mild  and  sun- 
shiny, with  now  and  then  a  soft-dropping  shower,  that 
sowed  the  whole  earth  with  diamonds. 

I  soon  fell  into  conversation  with  the  old  angler,  and 
was  so  much  entertained  that,  under  pretext  of  receiving 
instructions  in  his  art,  I  kept  company  with  him  almost 
the  whole  day ;  wandering  along  the  banks  of  the  stream, 
and  listening  to  his  talk.  He  was  very  communicative, 
having  all  the  easy  garrulity  of  cheerful  old  age ;  and  I 
fancy  was  a  little  flattered  by  having  an  opportunity  of 
displaying  his  piscatory  lore ;  for  who  does  not  like  now 
and  then  to  play  the  sage  ? 

He  had  been  much  of  a  rambler  in  his  day,  and  had 
passed  some  years  of  his  youth  in  America,  particularly 
in  Savannah,  where  he  had  entered  into  trade,  and  had 
been  ruined  by  the  indiscretion  of  a  partner.  He  had 
afterwards  experienced  many  ups  and  downs  in  life,  until 
he  got  into  the  navy,  where  his  leg  was  carried  away  by 
a  cannon  ball,  at  the  battle  of  Camperdown.  This  was 
the  only  stroke  of  real  good  fortune  he  had  ever  expe- 
rienced, for  it  got  him  a  pension,  which,  together  with 
some  small  paternal  property,  brought  him  in  a  revenue 


468  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

of  nearly  forty  pounds.  On  this  lie  retired  to  his  native 
village,  where  he  lived  quietly  and  independently;  and 
devoted  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  the  "noble  art  of 
angling." 

I  found  that  he  had  read  Izaak  Walton  attentively,  and 
he  seemed  to  have  imbibed  all  his  simple  frankness  and 
prevalent  good-humor.  Though  he  had  been  sorely  buf- 
feted about  the  world,  he  was  satisfied  that  the  world,  in 
itself,  was  good  and  beautiful.  Though  he  had  been  as 
rouglily  used  in  different  countries  as  a  poor  sheep  that 
is  fleeced  by  every  hedge  and  thicket,  yet  he  spoke  of 
every  nation  with  candor  and  kindness,  appearing  to  look 
only  on  the  good  side  of  things :  and,  above  all,  he  was 
almost  the  only  man  I  had  ever  met  with  who  had  been 
an  unfortunate  adventurer  in  America,  and  had  honesty 
and  magnanimity  enough  to  take  the  fault  to  his  own 
door,  and  not  to  curse  the  country.  The  lad  that  was 
receiving  his  instructions,  I  learnt,  was  the  son  and  hair 
apparent  of  a  fat  old  widow  who  kept  the  village  inn,  and 
of  course  a  youth  of  some  expectation,  and  much  courted 
by  the  idle  gentlemanlike  personages  of  the  place.  In 
taking  him  under  his  care,  therefore,  the  old  man  had 
probably  an  eye  to  a  privileged  corner  in  the  tap-room, 
and  an  occasional  cup  of  cheerful  ale  free  of  expense. 

There  is  certainly  something  in  angling  (if  we  could 
forget,  which  anglers  are  apt  to  do,  the  cruelties  and  tor- 
tures inflicted  on  worms  and  insects)  that  tends  to  pro- 
duce a  gentleness  of  spirit,  and  a  pure  serenity  of  mind. 


THE  ANGLER.  469 

As  the  English  are  methodical,  even  in  their  recreations, 
and  are  the  most  scientific  of  sportsmen,  it  has  been  re- 
dureed  among  them  to  perfect  rule  and  system.  Indeed 
it  is  an  amusement  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  mild  and 
highly-cultivated  scenery  of  England,  where  every  rough- 
ness has  been  softened  away  from  the  landscape.  It  is 
delightful  to  saunter  along  those  limpid  streams  which 
wander,  like  veins  of  silver,  through  the  bosom  of  this 
beautiful  country;  leading  one  through  a  diversity  of 
small  home  scenery ;  sometimes  winding  through  orna- 
mented grounds ;  sometimes  brimming  along  through 
rich  pasturage,  where  the  fresh  green  is  mingled  with 
sweet-smelling  flowers ;  sometimes  venturing  in  sight  of 
villages  and  hamlets,  and  then  running  capriciously  away 
into  shady  retirements.  The  sweetness  and  serenity  of 
nature,  and  the  quiet  watchfulness  of  the  sport,  gradually 
bring  on  pleasant  fits  of  musing ;  which  are  now  and  then 
agreeably  interrupted  by  the  song  of  a  bird,  the  distant 
whistle  of  the  peasant,  or  perhaps  the  vagary  of  some 
fish,  leaping  out  of  the  still  water,  and  skimming  tran- 
siently about  its  glassy  surface.  .  "  When  I  would  beget 
content,"  says  Izaak  Walton,  "  and  increase  confidence  in 
the  power  and  wisdom  and  providence  of  Almighty  God, 
I  will  walk  the  meadows  by  some  gliding  stream,  and 
there  contemplate  the  lilies  that  take  no  care,  and  those 
very  many  other  little  living  creatures  that  are  not  only 
created,  but  fed  (man  knows  not  how)  by  the  goodness  of 
the  God  qI  nature,  and  therefore  trust  in  him." 


470  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

I  cannot  forbear  to  give  another  quotation  from  one  of 
those  ancient  champions  of  angling,  which  breathes  the 
same  innocent  and- happy  spirit : 

Let  me  live  harmlessly,  and  near  tlie  brink 

Of  Trent  or  Avon  have  a  dwelling-place, 
Where  I  may  see  my  quill,  or  cork,  down  sink, 

With  eager  bite  of  pike,  or  bleak,  or  dace ; 
And  on  the  world  and  my  Creator  think : 

Whilst  some  men  strive  ill-gotten  goods  t' embrace; 
And  others  spend  their  time  in  base  excess 

Of  wine,  or  worse,  in  war,  or  wantonness. 

Let  them  that  will,  these  pastimes  still  pursue, 
And  on  such  pleasing  fancies  feed  their  fill; 

So  I  the  fields  and  meadows  green  may  view, 
And  daily  by  fresh  rivers  walk  at  will, 
'        Among  the  daisies  and  the  ^dolets  blue, 
Red  hyacinth  and  yellow  dafiodil.* 

On  parting  with  the  old  angler  I  inquired  after  his 
place  of  abode,  and  happening  to  be  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  village  a  few  evenings  afterwards,  I  had  the  curi- 
osity to  seek  him  out.  I  found  him  living  in  a  small  cot- 
tage, containing  only  one  room,  but  a  perfect  curiosity  in 
its  method  and  arrangement.  It  was  on  the  skirts  of 
the  village,  on  a  green  bank,  a  little  back  from  the  road, 
with  a  small  garden  in  front,  stocked  with  kitchen  herbs, 
and  adorned  with  a  few  flowers.  The  whole  front  of  the 
cottage  was  overrun  with  a  honeysuckle.    On  the  top  was 

*  J.  Davoi* 


THE  ANGLER,  471 

a  ship  for  a  weatlier-cock.  The  interior  was  fitted  up  in 
a  truly  nautical  style,  his  ideas  of  comfort  and  conve- 
nience having  been  acquired  on  the  berth-deck  of  a  man- 
of-war.  A  hammock  was  slung  from  the  ceiling,  which, 
in  the  daytime,  was  lashed  up  so  as  to  take  but  little 
room.  From  the  centre  of  the  chamber  hung  a  model  of 
a  ship,  of  his  own  workmanship.  Two  or  three  chairs,  a 
table,  and  a  large  sea-chest,  formed  the  principal  mov- 
ables. About  the  wall  were  stuck  up  naval  ballads,  such 
as  Admiral  Hosier's  Ghost,  All  in  the  Downs,  and  Tom 
Bowline,  intermingled  with  pictures  of  sea-fights,  among 
which  the  battle  of  Camperdown  held  a  distinguished 
place.  The  mantel-piece  was  decorated  with  sea-shells; 
over  which  hung  a  quadrant,  flanked  by  two  wood-cuts  of 
most  bitter-looking  naval  commanders.  His  implements 
for  angling  were  carefully  disposed  on  nails  and  hooks 
about  the  room.  On  a  shelf  was  arranged  his  library, 
containing  a  work  on  angling,  much  worn,  \  Bible 
covered  with"  canvas,  an  odd  volume  or  two  of  voyages, 
a  nautical  almanac,  and  a  book  of  songs. 

His  family  consisted  of  a  large  black  cat  with  one  eye, 
and  a  parrot  which  he  had  caught  and  tamed,  and  edu- 
cated himself,  in  the  course  of  one  of  his  voyages ;  and 
which  uttered  a  variety  of  sea  phrases  with  the  hoarse 
brattling  tone  of  a  veteran  boatswain.  The  establish- 
ment reminded  me  of  that  of  the  renowned  Kobinson 
Crusoe ;  it  was  kept  in  neat  order,  every  thing  being 
"stowed  away"  with   the   regularity  of  a  ship  of  war; 


4:72  ^^^  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  he  informed  me  that  he  "scoured  the  deck  every 
morning,  and  swept  it  between  meals." 

I  found  him  seated  on  a  bench  before  the  door,  smok- 
ing his  pipe  in  the  soft  evening  sunshine.  His  cat  was 
purring  soberly  on  the  threshold,  and  his  parrot  describ- 
ing some  strange  evolutions  in  an  iron  ring  that  swung  in 
the  centre  of  his  cage.  He  had  been  angling  all  day,  and 
gave  me  a  history  of  his  sport  with  as  much  minuteness 
as  a  general  would  talk  over  a  campaign ;  being  particu- 
larly animated  in  relating  the  manner  in  which  he  had 
taken  a  large  trout,  which  had  completely  tasked  all  his 
skill  and  wariness,  and  which  he  had  sent  as  a  trophy  to 
mine  hostess  of  the  inn. 

How  comforting  it  is  to  see  a  cheerful  and  contented 
old  age ;  and  to  behold  a  poor  fellow,  like  this,  after  be- 
ing tempest-tost  through  life,  safely  moored  in  a  snug 
and  quiet  harbor  in  the  evening  of  his  days !  His  happi- 
ness, however,  sprung  from  within  himself,  and  was  inde- 
pendent of  external  circumstances ;  for  he  had  that  inex- 
haustible good-nature,  which  is  the  most  precious  gift  ot 
Heaven ;  spreading  itself  like  oil  over  the  troubled  sea  of 
thought,  and  keeping  the  mind  smooth  and  equable  in 
the  roughest  weather. 

On  inquiring  further  about  him,  I  learned  that  he  was 
a  universal  favorite  in  the  village,  and  the  oracle  of  the 
tap-room ;  where  he  delighted  the  rustics  with  his  songs, 
and,  like  Sinbad,  astonished  them  with  his  stories  of 
strange  lands,  and  shipwrecks,  and  sea-fights.     He  was 


THE  ANGLEB,  473 

mucli  noticed  too  by  gentlemen  sportsmen  of  the  neigh- 
borhood;^ had  taught  several  of  them  the  art  of  angling; 
and  was  a  privileged  visitor  to  tlieir  kitchens.  The  whole 
tenor  of  his  life  was  quiet  and  inoffensive,  being  princi- 
pally passed  about  the  neighboring  streams,  when  the 
weather  and  season  were  favorable ;  and  at  other  times  he 
employed  himself  at  home,  preparing  his  fishing  tackle 
for  the  next  campaign,  or  manufacturing  rods,  nets,  and 
flies,  for  his  patrons  and  pupils  among  the  gentry. 

He  was  a  Tegular  attendant  at  church  on  Sundays, 
though  he  generally  fell  asleep  during  the  sermon.  He 
had  made  it  his  particular  request  that  when  he  died  he 
should  be  buried  in  a  green  spot,  which  he  could  see 
from  his  seat  in  church,  and  which  he  had  marked  out 
ever  since  he  was  a  boy,  and  had  thought  of  when  far 
from  home  on  the  raging  sea,  in  danger  of  being  food  for 
the  fishes — it  was  the  spot  where  his  father  and  mother 
had  been  buried. 

I  have  done,  for  I  fear  that  my  reader  is  growing 
weary ;  but  I  could  not  refrain  from  drawing  the  picture 
of  this  worthy  "  brother  of  the  angle ; "  who  has  made  me 
more  than  ever  in  love  with  the  theory,  though  I  fear  I 
shall  never  be  adroit  in  the  practice  of  his  art :  and  I  will 
conclude  this  rambling  sketch  in  the  words  of  honest 
Izaak  Walton,  by  craving  the  blessing  of  St.  Peter's  mas- 
ier  upon  my  reader,  "  and  upon  all  that  are  true  lovers  of 
virtue ;  and  dare  trust  in  his  providence ;  and  be  quiet ; 
and  go  a  angling." 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 

FOUND  AMONG  THE  PAPERS  OF  THE  LATE  DIEDRICH  KNICK- 
ERBOCKER. 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy  head  it  was, 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half -shut  eye  ; 

And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
For  ever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky. 

Castle  of  Indolence. 

N  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  spacious  coves 
which  indent  the  eastern  shore  of  the  Hud- 
son, at  that  broad  expansion  of  the  river  de- 
nominated by  the  ancient  Dutch  navigators  the  Tappan 
Zee,  and  where  they  always  prudently  shortened  sail, 
and  implored  the  protection  of  St.  Nicholas  when  they 
crossed,  there  lies  a  small  market-town  or  rural  port, 
which  by  some  is  called  Greensburgh,  but  which  is 
more  generally  and  properly  known  by  the  name  of 
Tarry  Town.  This  name  was  given,  we  are  told,  in 
former  days,  by  the  good  housewives  of  the  adjacent 
country,  from  the  inveterate  propensity  of  their  hus- 
bands to  linger  about  the  village  tavern  on  market 
days.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  do  not  vouch  for  the  fact, 
but  merely  advert  to  it,  for  the  sake  of  being  precise 

474 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  4JJ^ 

and  authentic.  Not  far  from  this  village,  perhaps  about 
two  miles,  there  is  a  little  valley,  or  rather  lap  of  land, 
among  high  hills,  which  is  one  of  the  quietest  places  in 
the  whole  world.  A  small  brook  glides  through  it,  with 
just  murmur  enough  to  lull  one  to  repose  ;  and  the  occa- 
sional whistle  of  a  quail,  or  tapping  of  a  woodpecker,  is 
almost  the  only  sound  that  ever  breaks  in  upon  the  uni- 
form tranquillity. 

I  recollect  that,  when  a  stripling,  my  first  exploit  in 
squirrel-shooting  was  in  a  grove  of  tall  walnut-trees  that 
shades  one  side  of  the  valley.  I  had  wandered  into  it  at 
noon  time,  when  all  nature  is  peculiarly  quiet,  and  was 
startled  by  the  roar  of  m^^  own  gun,  as  it  broke  the  Sab- 
bath stillness  around,  and  was  prolonged  and  reverber- 
ated i^y  the  angry  pchoes.  If  ever  I  should  wish  for  a 
retreat,  whither  I  might  steal  from  the  world  and  its 
distractions,  and  dream  quietly  away  the  remnant  of  a 
troubled  life,  I  know  of  none  more  promising  than  this 
little  valley.      '    " 

From  the  listless  repose  of  the  place,  and  the  peculiar 
character  of  its  inhabitants,  who  are  descendants  from 
the  original  Dutch  settlers,  this  sequestered  glen  has 
long  been  known  by  the  name  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  and 
its  rustic  lads  are  called  the  Sleepy  Hollow  Boys 
throughout  all  the  neighboring  country.  A  drowsy, 
dreamy  influence  seems  to  hang  over  the  land,  and  to 
pervade  the  very  atmosphere.  Some  say  that  the  place 
was  bewitched  by  a  high   German  doctor,  during  the 


476  THE  8EETCH.B00K, 

early  days  of  tlie  settlement ;  others,  that  an  old  Indian 
chief,  the  prophet  or  wizard  of  his  tribe,  held  his  pow- 
wows there  before  the  country  was  discovered  by  Master 
Hendrick  Hudson.  Certain  it  is,  the  place  still  continues 
under  the  sway  of  some  witching  power,  that  holds  a 
spell  over  the  minds  of  the  good  people,  causing  them  to 
walk  in  a  continual  reverie.  They  are  given  to  all  kinds 
of  marvellous  beliefs  ;  are  subject  to  trances  and  visions ; 
and  frequently  see  strange  sights,  and  hear  music  and 
voices  in  the  air.  The  whole  neighborhood  abounds 
with  local  tales,  haunted  spots,  and  twilight  supersti- 
tions; stars  shoot  and  meteors  glare  oftener  across  the 
valley  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  country,  and  the 
nightmare,  with  her  whole  nine  fold,  seems  to  make  it 
the  favorite  scene  of  her  gambols. 

The  dominant  spirit,  however,  that  haunts  this  en- 
chanted region,  and  seems  to  be  commander-in-chief  of 
all  the  powers  of  the  air,  is  the  apparition  of  a  figure  on 
horseback  without  a  head.  It  is  said  by  somej^o  be  the 
ghost  of  a  Hessian  trooper,  whose  head  had  "^en  carried 
aw§y  by  a  cannon-ball,  in  some  nameless  battle  during 
the  revolutionary  wa/;  and  who  is  ever  and  anon  seen  by 
the  country  folk,  hurrying  along  in  the  glodm  of  night,  as 
if  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.  His  haunts  are  not  confined 
to  the  valley,  but  extend  at  times  to  the  adjacent  roads, 
and  especially  to  the  vicinity  of  a  church  at  no  great  dis- 
tance. Indeed,  certain  of  the  most  authentic  historians  of 
those  parts,  who  have  been  careful  in  collecting  and  col- 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  477 

lating  the  floating  facts  concerning  this  spectre,  allege 
that  the  body  of  the  trooper,  having  been  buried  in  the 
church-yard,  the  ghost  rides  forth  to  the  scene  of  bat- 
tle in  nightly  quest  of  his  head ;  and  that  the  rushing 
speed  with  which  he  sometimes  passes  along  the  Hollow, 
like  a  midnight  blast,  is  owing  to  his  being  belated, 
£md  in  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  the  church-yard  before 
.daybreak. 

Such  is  the  general  purport  of  this  legendary  supersti- 
tion, which  has  furnished  materials  for  many  a  wild  story 
in  that  region  of  shadows ;  and  the  spectre  is  known,  at 
all  the  country  firesides,  by  the  name  of  the  Headless 
Horseman  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

~^  It  is  remarkable  that  the  visionary  propensity  I  have 
mentioned  is  not  confined  to  the  native  inhabitants  of  the 
valley,  but  is  unconsciously  imbibed  by  every  one  who 
resides  there  for  a  time.  Hawever  wide  awake  they  may 
have  been  before  they  entered  that  sleepy  region,  they 
^re  sure,  in  a  liiitle  time,  iq^inliale  the  witchings^influence 
of  the'^air,  and  begin  to  grow  imaginative — to  dream  ^ 
dreams,  ^nd  s^e,  apparitions.        ^   ,  f^ 

f^B mention  this  peaqejul  spot  with  all  possible  laud; 
for  it  is  In  such  little,  retired  Dutch  ^alleys,-  found  h^re 
and  there  embosomed  in  the  great  State  of  New- York, 
that  population,  manners,  and  customs,  remain  fixed ; 
while- the  great  torrent  of  migration  and  improvement, 
which  is  making  such  incessant  changes  in  other  parts 
of  this   restless   country,  sweeps  by  them   unobserved. 


478  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

They  are  like  those  little  nooks  of  still  water  which 
border  a  rapid  stream ;  where  we  may  see  the  straw  and 
bubble  riding  quietly  at  anchor,  or  slowly  revolving  in 
their  mimic  harbor,  undisturbed  by  the  rush  of  the 
passing  current.  Though  many  years  have  elapsed  since 
I  trod  the  drowsy  shades  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  yet  I  ques-  - 
tion  whether  I  should  not  still  find  the  same  trees  and' 
the  same  families  vegetating  in  its  sheltered  bosom. 

In  this  by-place  of  nature,  there  abode,  in  a  remote 
period  of  American  history,  that  is  to  say,  some  thirty 
years  since,  a  worthy  wight  of  the  name  of  Ichabod 
Crane ;  who  sojourned,  or,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  tarried," 
in  Sleepy  Hollow,  for  the  purpose  of  instructing  the 
children  of  the  vicinity.  He  was  a  native  of  Connecti- 
cut ;  a  State  which  supplies  the  Union  with  pioneers  for 
the  mind  as  well  as  for  the  forest,  and  sends  forth  yearly 
its  legions  of  frontier  woodsmen  and  country  school- 
masters. The  cognom^  of  Crane  was  not  inapplicable 
to  his  person.  He  was  tall,  but  exceedingly  lank,  with 
narrow  shoulders,  long  arms  and  legs,  hands  that  dan- , 
gled  a  mile  out  of  his  sleeves,  feet  that  might  have' 
served  for  shovels,  and  his  whole  frame  most  loosely 
hung  together.  His  head  was  small,  and  flat  ^t  top, 
with  huge  ears,  large  green  glassy  eyes,  and  a  long  snipe 
nose,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  weather-cock,  perched  upon 
his  spindle  neck,  to  tell  which  way  the  wind  blew.  To 
see  him  striding  along  the  profile  of  a  hill  on  a  windy 
day,  with  his  clothes  bagging  and  fluttering  about  him^ 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEP T  HOLLOW.  479 

one  might  have  mistaken  him  for  the  genius  of  famine 
descending  upon  the  earth,  or  some  scarecrow  eloped 
from  a  cornfield. 

His  school-house  was  a  low  building  of  one  large  room, 
rudely  constructed  of  logs ;  the  windows  partly  glazed, 
and  partly  patched  with  leaves  of  old  copy-books.  It 
was  most  ingeniously  secured  at  vacant  hours,  by  a  withe 
twisted  in  the  handle  of  the  door,  and  stakes  set  against 
the  window  shutters ;  so  that,  though  a  thief  might  get 
in  with  perfect  ease,  he  would  find  some  embarrassment 
in  getting  out ;  an  idea  most  probably  borrowed  by  the 
architect,  Yost  Yan  Houten,  from  the  mystery  of  an 
eel-pot.  The  school-house  stood  in  a  rather  lonely  but 
pleasant  situation,  just  at  the  foot  of  a  woody  hill,  with 
a  brook  running  close  by,  and  a  formidable  birch  tree 
growing  at  one  end  of  it.  From  hence  the  low  murmur 
of  ills  pupils'  voices,  conning  over  their  lessons,  might  be 
heard  in  a  drowsy  summer's  day,  like  the  hum  of  a  bee- 
hive ;  interrupted^  now  and  then  by  the  authoritative 
voice  of  the  master,  in  the  tone  of  menace  or  command ; 
or,  peradventure,  by  the  appalling  sound  of  the  birch,  as 
he  urged  some  tardy  loiterer  along  the  flowery  path  of 
knowledge.  Truth  to  say,  he  was  a  conscientious  man, 
and  ever  bore  in  mind  the  golden  maxim,  "  Spare  the  rod 
and  spoil  the  child." — Ichabod  Crane's  scholars  certainly 
were  not  spoiled. 

I  Would  not  have  it  imagined,  however,  that  he  was 
one  of  those  cruel  potentates  of  the  school,  who  joy  in 


480  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

the  smart  of  tlieir  subjects ;  on  tlie  contrary,  lie  adminis- 
tered justice  with  discrimination  rather  than  severity; 
taking  the  burthen  off  the  backs  of  the  weak,  and  laying 
it  on  those  of  the  strong.  Your  mere  puny  stripling, 
that  winced  at  the  least  flourish  of  the  rod,  was  passed 
by  with  indulgence ;  but  the  claims  of  justice  were  satis- 
fied by  inflicting  a  double  portion  on  some  little,  tough, 
wrong-headed,  broad-skirted  Dutch  urchin,  who  sulked 
and  swelled  and  grew  dogged  and  sullen  beneath  the 
birch.  All  this  he  called  "doing  his  duty  by  their 
parents ; "  and  he  never  inflicted  a  chastisement  without 
following  it  by  the  assurance,  so  consolatory  to  the 
smarting  urchin,  that  "  he  would  remember  it,  and  thank 
him  for  it  the  longest  day  he  had  to  live." 

When  school  hours  were  over,  he  was  even  the  com- 
panion and  playmate  of  the  larger  boys  ;  and  on  holiday 
afternoons  would  convoy  some  of  the  smaller  ones  home, 
who  happened  to  have  pretty  sisters,  or  good  housewives 
for  mothers,  noted  for  the  comforts  of  the  cupboard.  In- 
deed it  behooved  him  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  Jais 
pupils.  The  revenue  arising  from  his  school  was  small, 
and  would  have  been  scarcely  sufficient  to  furnish  him 
with  daily  bread,  for  he  was  a  huge  feeder,  and  though 
lank,  had  the  dilating  poAvers  of  an  anaconda;  but  to  help 
out  his  maintenance,  he  was,  according  to  country  custom 
in  those  parts,  boarded  and  lodged  at  the  houses  of  the 
farmers,  whose  children  he  instructed.  "With  these  he 
lived   successively  a  week   at   a  time  ;  thus  going  the 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEP T  HOLLOW.  481 

-^ 

rounds  of  the  neigliborliood,  with  all  his  worldly  effects 
tied  up  in  a  cotton  handkerchief. 

That  all  this  might  not  be  too  onerous  on  the  purses  of 
his  rustic  patrons,  who  are  apt  to  consider  the  costs  of 
schooling  a  grievous  burden,  and  schoolmasters  as  mere 
drones,  he  had  various  ways  of  rendering  himself  both 
useful  and  agreeable..  He  assisted  the  farmers  occasion- 
ally in  the  lighter  labors  of  their  farms  ;  helped  to  make 
hay ;  mended  the  fences  ;  took  the  horses  to  water ;  drove 
the  cows  from  pasture ;  and  cut  wood  for  the  winter  fire. 
He  laid  aside,  too,  all  the  dominant  dignity  and  absolute 
sway  with  which  he  lorded  it  in  his  little  empire,  the 
school,  and  became  wonderfully  gentle  and  ingratiating. 
He  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  mothers,  by  petting  the 
children,  particularly  the  youngest;  and  like  the  lion 
bold,  which  wh|Jom  so  magnanimously  the  lamb  did  hold, 
he  wjould  sit  with  a  child  on  one  knee,  and  rock  a  cradle 
with  his  foot  ^or  whole  hours  together. 

In  addition  to  his  other  vocations,  he  was  the  singing- 
master  of  th~e  neighborhood,  and  picked  up  many  bright 
shillings  by  instructing  the  young  folks  in  psalmody.  It 
was  a  matter  of  no  little  vanity  to  him,  on  Sundays,  to 
take  his  station  in  front  of  the  church  gallery,  with  a 
band  of  chosen  singers ;  where,  in  his  own  mind,  he  com- 
pletely carried  away  the  palm  from  the  parson.  Certain 
it  is,  his  voice  resounded  far  above  all  the  rest  of  the 
congregation ;  and  there  are  peculiar  quavers  still  to  be 
b^ard  in  that  church,  and  which  may  even  be  heard  half 
81 


482  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

a  mile  off,  quite  to  tlie  opposite  side  of  the  mill-pond,  on 
a  still  Sunday  morning,  whicli  are  said  to  be  legitimately 
descended  from  the  nose  of  Ichabod  Crane.  Thus,  by 
divers  little  make-shifts  in  that  ingenious  way  which  is 
commonly  denominated  "  by  hook  and  by  crook,"  the 
worthy  pedagogue  got  on  tolerably  enough,  and  wa^ 
thought,  by  all  who  understood  nothing  of  the  labor  of 
headwork,  to  have  a  wonderfully  easy  life  of  it. 
\  The  schoolmaster  is  generally  a  man  of  some  impor- 
tance in  the  female  circle  of  a  rural  neighborhood ;  being 
considered  a  kind  of  idle  gentlemanlike  personage,  of 
vastly  superior  taste  and  accomplishments  to  the  rough 
country  swains,  and,  indeed,  inferior  in  learning  only  to  ^ 
the  parson.  His  appearance,  therefore,  is  apt  to  occasion 
some  little  stir  at  the  tea-table  of  a  farmhouse,  and  the  ^ 
addition  of  a  supernumerary  dish  of  cakes  or  sweet- 
meats, or,  peradventure,  the  parade  of  a  silver  tea-poi 
Our  man  of  letters,  therefore,  was  peculiarly  happy  in 
the  smiles  of  all  the  country  damsels.  How  he  would  fig- 
ure among  them  in  the  church -yard,  between  services  ^on 
Sundays!  gathering  grapes  for  them  from  the  wild  vines ^ 
that  overrun  the  surrounding  treos ;  reciting  for  their 
amusement  all  the  epitaphs  on  the  tombstones ;  or  saun- 
tering, with  a  whole  bevy  of  them,  along  the  banks  of 
the  adjacent  mill-pond ;  while  the  more  bashful  country 
bumpkins  hung  sheepishly  back,  envying  his  superior 
elegance  and  address. 

From  his  half  itinerant  life,  also,  he  was  a  kind  of  trav- 


THE  LEGEND  OB'  8LEEPY  HOLLOW.  483 

elling  gazette,  carrying  tlie  whole  budget  of  local  gossip 
from  house  to  house  ;  so  that  his  appearance  was  always 
greeted  with  satisfaction.  He  was,  moreover,  esteemed 
by  the  women  as  a  man  of  great  erudition,  for  he  had 
read  several  books  quite  through,  and  was  a  perfect  mas- 
ter of  Cotton  Mather's  history  of  New  England  Witch- 
craft, in  which,  by  the  way,  he  most  firmly  and  potently 
believed. 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  odd  mixture  of  small  shrewdness 
and  simple  credulity.  His  appetite  for  the  ^marvellous, 
and  his  powers  of  digesting  it,  were  equally  extraordi- 
nary ;  and  both  had  been  increased  by  his  residence  in 
this  spellbound  region.  No  tale  was  too  gross  or  mon- 
strous for  his  capacious  swallow.  It  was  often  his  de- 
light, after  his  school  was  dismissed  in  the  afternoon,  to 
stretch  himself  on  the  rich  bed  of  clover,  bordering  the 
little  brook  that  whimpered  by  his  school -house,  and 
there  con  over  old  Mather's  direful  tales,  until  the  gath- 
ering dusk  of  the  evening  made  the  printed  page  a  mere 
mist  before  his  eyes.  Then,  as  he  wended  his  way,  by 
swamp  and  stream  and  awful  woodland,  to  the  farmhouse 
where  he  happened  to  be  quartered,  every  sound  of  na- 
ture, at  that  witching  hour,  fluttered  his  excited  imagina- 
tion :  the  moan  of  the  whip-poor-will  ^  from  the  hill-side ; 
the  boding  cry  of  the  tree-toad,  that  harbinger  of  storm ; 
the  dreary  hooting  of  the  screech-owl,  or  the  sudden  rus- 

*  The  whip-poor-will  is  a  bird  which  is  only  heard  at  night.  It  re» 
selves  its  name  from  its  note,  which  is  thought  to  resemble  those  words. 


484  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

tling  in  the  thicket  of  birds  frightened  from  their  roost 
The  fire-flies,  too,  which  sparkled  most  vividly  in  the 
darkest  places,  now  and  then  startled  him,  as  one  of  tin- 
common  brightness  would  stream  across  his  path  ;  and  if, 
by  chance,  a  huge  blockhead  of  a  beetle  came  winging  his 
blundering  flight  against  him,  the  poor  varlet  was  ready 
to  give  up  the  ghost,  with  the  idea  that  he  was  struck 
with  a  witch's  token.  His  only  resource  on  such  occa- 
sions, either  to  drown  thought,  or  drive  away  evil  spirits, 
was  to  sing  psalm  tunes ; — and  the  good  people  of  Sleepy 
Hollow,  as  they  sat  by  their  doors  of  an  evening,  were 
often  filled  with  awe,  at  hearing  his  nasal  melody,  "  in 
linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,"  floating  from  the  dis- 
tant hill,  or  along  the  dusky  road.  ^ 

Another  of  his  sources  of  fearful  pleasure  was,  to  pass 
long  winter  evenings  with  the  old  Dutch  wives,  as  they 
sat  spinning  by  the  fire,  with  a  row  of  apples  roasting 
and  spluttering  along  the  hearth,  and  listen  to  their  mar- 
vellous tales  of  ghosts  and  goblins,  and  haunted  field<s, 
and  haunted  brooks,  and  haunted  bridges,  and  haunted 
houses,  and  particularly  of  the  headless  horseman,  or 
galloping  Hessian  of  the  Hollow,  as  they  sometimes 
called  him.  He  would  delight  them  equally  by  his  ^anec- 
dotes of  witchcraft,  and  of  the  direful  omens  and  porten- 
tous sights  and  sounds  in  the  air,  which  prevailed  in  the 
earlier  times  of  Connecticut;  and  would  frighten  them 
wofully  with  speculations  upon  comets  and  shooting 
stars;    and  with  the  alarming  fact  that  the  world  did 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY^  HOLLOW.  485 

absolutely  turn  round,  and  that  they  were  half  the^time 
topsy-turvy ! 

But  if  there  was  a  pleasure  in  all  this,  while  snugly 
cuddling  in  the  chimney  corner  of  a  chamber  that  was  all 
of  a  ruddy  glow  from  the  crackling  wood  fire,  and  where, 
of  course,  no  spectre  dared  to  show  his  face,  it  was  dearly 
purchased  by  the  terrors  of  his  subsequent  walk  home- 
wards. What  fearful  sliapes,  and  shadows  beset  his  path 
amidst  the  dim  and  ghastly  glare  of  a  snowy  night! — 
"With  what  wistful  look  did  he  eye  every  trembling  ray  of 
light  streaming  across  the  waste  fields  from  some  distant 
window! — How  often  was  he  appalled  by  some  shrub 
covered  with  snow,  which,  like  a  sheeted  spectre,  beset 
his  very  path ! — How  often  did  he  shrink  with  curdling 
awe  at  the  sound  of  his  own  steps  on  the  frosty  crust 
beneath  his^feet;  and  dread  to  look  over  his  shoulder, 
lest  he  should  behold  some  uncouth  being  tramping  close 
behind  him !— -and  how  often  was  he  thrown  into  complete 
dismay  by  some  rushing  blast,  howling  among  the  trees, 
in  the  idea  that  it  was  the  Galloping  Hessian  on  one  of 
his  nightly  scourings  1 

All  these,  however,  were  mere  terrors  of  the  night, 
phantoms  of  the  mind  that  walk  in  darkness ;  and  though 
he  had  seen  many  spectres  in  his  time,  and  been  more 
than  once  beset  by  Satan  in  divers  shapes,  in  his  lonely 
perambulations,  yet  daylight  put  an  end  to  all  these 
evils ;  and  he  would  have  passed  a  pleasant  life  of  it,  in 
despite  of  the  devil  and  all  his  works,  if  his  path  had  not 


486  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

been  crossed  by  a  being  tliat  causes  more  perplexity  to 
mortal  man  tlian  ghosts,  goblins,  and  the  whole  race  of 
"witches  put  together,  and  that  was — a  woman. 

Among  the  musical  disciples  who  assembled,  one  even- 
ing in  each  week,  to  receive  his  instructions  in  psalmody, 
was  Katrina  Yan  Tassel,  the  daughter  and  only  child  of 
a  substantial  Dutch  farmer.  She  was  a  blooming  lass  of 
fresh  eighteen ;  plump  as  a  partridge ;  ripe  and  melting 
and  rosy  cheeked  as  one  of  her  father's  peaches,  and  uni- 
versally famed,  not  merely  for  her  beauty,  but  her  vast 
expectations.  She  was  withal  a  little  of  a  coquette,  as 
might  be  perceived  even  in  her  dress,  which  was  a  mix-  ^ 
ture  of  ancient  and  modern  fashions,  as  most  suited  to  set 
off  her  charms.  She  wore  the  ornaments  of  pure  yellow  ' 
gold,  which  her^great-great-grandmother  had  brought 
over  from  Saardam ;  the  tempting  stomacher  of  the  olden 
time ;  and  withal  a  provokiugly  short  petticoat,  to  dis- 
play the  prettiest  foot  and  ankle  in  the  country  round.     ^  , 

Ichabod  Crane  had  a  soft  and  foolish  heart  towards 
the  sex ;  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  so  tempting 
a  morsel  soon  found  favor  in  his  eyes ;  more  especially 
after  he  had  visited  her  in  her  paternal  mansion.  Old 
Baltus  Van  Tassel  was  a  perfect  picture  of  a  thriving, 
contented,  liberal-hearted  farmer.  He  seldom,  it  is  true, 
sent  either  his  eyes  or  his  thoughts  beyond  the  boun- 
daries of  his  own  farm ;  but  within  those  every  thing  was 
snug,  happy,  and  well-conditioned.  He  was  satisfied  with 
hia  wealth,  but  not  proud  of  it ;  and  piqued  himself  upon 


THE  LE9END  OF  SLEEPY-HOLLOW.  487 

the  hearty  abundance,  rather  than  the  style  in  which:  he 
lived.  His  stronghold  was  situated  on  the  banks  of  the 
Hudson,  in  one  of  those  green,  sheltered,  fertile  nooks,  in 
which  the  Dutch  farmers  are  so  fond  of  nestling.  A 
great  elm-tree  spread  its  broad  branches  over  it ;  at  the 
foot  of  which  bubbled  up  a  spring  of  the  softest  and 
sweetest  water,,  in  a  little  well,  formed  of  a  barrel ;  and 
then  stole  sparkling  away  through  the  grass,  to  a  neigh- 
boring brook,  that  bubbled  along  among  alders  and 
dwarf  willov/s.  Hard  by  the  farmhouse  was  a  vast  barn, 
that  might  have  served  for  a  church ;  every  window  and 
crevice  of  which  seemed  burstinsr  forth  with  the  treas- 
ures  of  the  farm ;  the  flail  was  busily  resounding  within 
it  from  morning  to  night ;  swallows  and  martins  skimmed 
twittering  about  the  eaves;  and  rows  of  pigeons,  some 
with  one  eye  turned  up,  as  if  watching  the  weather,  some 
with  their  heads  under  their  wings,  or  buried  in  their 
bosoms,  and  others  swelling,  and  cooing,  and  bowing 
about  Iheir  dames,  were  enjoying  the  sunshine  on  the 
roof.  Sleek- unwieldy  porkers  were  grunting  in  the  re- 
pose and  abundance  of  their  pens ;  whence  sallied  forth, 
now  and  then,  troops  of  sucking  pigs,  as  if  to  snuff  the 
air.  A  stately  squadron  of  snowy  geese  were  riding  in 
an  adjoining  pond,  convoying  whole  fleets  of  ducks ;  regi- 
ments of  turkeys  were  gobbling  through  the  farmyard, 
and  guinea  fowls  fretting  about  it,  like  ill-tempered 
housewives,  with  their  peevish  discontented  cry.  Before 
the  barn  door  strutted  the  gallant  cock,  that  pattern  of  a 


488  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

husband,  a  warrior,  and  a  fine  gentleman,  clapping  his 
burnished  wings,  and  crowing  in  the  pride  and  gladness 
of  his  heart — sometimes  tearing  up  the  earth  with  his 
feet,  and  then  generously  calling  his  ever-hungry  family 
of  wives  and  children  to  enjoy  the  rich  morsel  which  he 
had  discovered. 

The  pedagogue's  mouth  watered,  as  he  looked  upon 
this  sumptuous  promise  of  luxurious  winter  fare.  In 
his  devouring  mind's  eye,  he  pictured  to  himself  every 
roasting-pig  running  about  with  a  pudding  in  his  belly, 
and  an  apple  in  his  mouth ;  the  pigeons  were  snugly  put 
to  bed  in  a  comfortable  pie,  and  tucked  in  with  a  coverlet 
of  crust ;  the  geese  were  swimming  in  their  own  gravy  ;^ 
and  the  ducks  pairing  cosily  in  dishes,  like  snug  married 
couples,  with  a  decent  competency  of  onion  sauce.  In 
the  porkers  he  saw  carved  out  the  future  sleek  side  of 
bacon,  and  juicy  relishing  ham ;  not  a  turkey  but  he  be- 
held daintily  trussed  up,  with  its  gizzard  under  its  wing, 
and,  peradventure,  a  necklace  of  savory  sausages;  and 
even  bright  chanticleer  himself  lay  sprawling  ^on  his 
back,  in  a  side-dish,  with  uplifted  claws,  as  if  craving 
that  quarter  which  his  chivalrous  spirit  disdained  to  ask  ^ 
while  living. 

As  the  enraptured  Ichabod  fancied  all  this,  and  as  he 
rolled  his  great  green  eyes  over  the  fat  meadow-lands, 
the  rich  fields  of  wheat,  of  rye,  of  buckwheat,  and  Indian 
corn,  and  the  orchards  burthened  with  ruddy  fruit,  which 
surrounded  the  warm  tenement  of  Van  Tassel,  his  heart 


THE  LEQENp  OF  8LEEPT- HOLLOW.  489 

yearned  after  the  damsel  who  was  to  inherit  these^  do- 
mains, and  his  imagination  expanded  with  the  idea,  how 
they  might  be  readily  turned  into  cash,  and  the  money 
invested  in  immense  tracts  of  wild  land,  and  shingle 
palaces  in  the  wilderness.  Nay,  his  busy  fancy  already 
realized  his  hopes,  and  presented  to  him  the  blooming 
Katrina,  with  a  whole  family  of  children,  mounted  on  the 
top  of  a  wagon  loaded  with  household  trumpery,  with 
pots  and  kettles  dangling  beneath ;  and  /he  beheld  him- 
self bestriding  a  pacing  mare,  with  a  colt  at  her  heels, 
setting  out  for  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  or  the  Lord  knows 
where. 

When  he  entered  the  house  the  conquest  of  hiB  heart 
was  complete.  It  was  one  of  those  spacious  farmhouses, 
with  high-ridged,  but  lowly-sloping  roofs,  built  in  the 
style  handed  down  from  the  first  Dutch  settlers ;  the  low 
projecting  eaves  forming  a  piazza  along  the  front,  capable 
of  being  closed  up  in  bad  weather.  Under  thi^  were 
hung 'flails,  harness,  various  utensils  of  husbandry,  and 
nets  for  fishing  in  the  neighboring  river.  Benches  were 
built  along  the  sides  for  sujnmer  use  ;  and  a  great  spin- 
ning-wheel at  one  end,  and  a  churn  at  the  other,  showed 
the  various  uses  to  which  this  important  porch  might  be 
devoted.  From  this  piazza  the  wondering  Ichabod  en- 
tered the  hall,  which  formed  the  centre  of  the  mansion 
and  the  place  of  usual  residence.  Here,  rows  of  resplen- 
dent pewter,  ranged  on  a  long  dresser,  dazzled  his  eyes. 
In  one  corner  stood  a  huge  bag  of  wool   ready  to   be 


4:90  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

spun ;  in  another  a  quantity  of  linsey-woolsey  just  from 
the  loom ;  ears  of  Indian  corn,  and  strings  of  dried  ap- 
ples and  peaches,  hung  in  gay  festoons  along  the  walls, 
mingled  with  the  gaud  of  red  peppers ;  and  a  door  left 
ajar  gave  him  a  peep  into  the  best  parlor,  where  the 
claw-footed  chairs,  and  dark  mahogany  tables,  shone  like 
mirrors ;  and  irons,  with  their  accompanying  shovel  and 
tongs,  glistened  from  their  covert  of  asparagus  tops; 
mock-oranges  and  conch-shells  decorated  the  mantel- 
piece ;  strings  of  various  colored  birds'  eggs  were  sus- 
TDended  above  it :  a  great  ostrich  egg  was  hung  from  the 
centre  of  the  room,  and  a  corner  cupboard,  knowingly 
left  open,  displayed  immense  treasures  of  old  silver  and 
well-mended  china.  ^ 

From  the  moment  Ichabod  laid  his  eyes  upon  these  re- 
gions of  delight,  the  peace  of  his  mind  was  at  an  end,  and 
his  only  study  was  how  to  gain  the  affections  of  the  peer- 
less daughter  of  Yan  Tassel.  In  this  enterprise,  hqw- 
ever,  he  had  more  real  difficulties  than  generally  fell  to 
the  lot  of  a  knight-errant  of  yore,  who  seldom  had  any 
thing  but  giants,  enchanters,  fiery  dragons,  and  such  like 
easily-conquered  adversaries,  to  contend  with ;  and  had 
to  make  his  way  merely  through  gates  of  iron  and  brass, 
and  walls  of  adamant,  to  the  castle  keep,  where  the  lady 
of  his  heart  was  confined ;  all  which  he  achieved  as  easily 
as  a  man  would  carve  his  way  to  the  centre  of  a  Christ- 
mas pie  ;  and  then  the  lady  gave  him  her  hand  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course.     Ichabod,  on  the  contrary,  had  to  win  his 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  491 

way  to  the  heart  of  a  country  coquette,  beset  with  a  laby- 
rinth of  whims  and  caprices,  which  were  for  ever  present- 
ing new  difficulties  and  impediments ;  and  he  had  to  en- 
counter a  host  of  fearful  adversaries  of  real  flesh  and 
blood,  the  numerous  rustic  admirers,  who  beset  every 
portal  to  her  heart ;  keeping  a  watchful  and  angry  eye 
upon  each  other,  but  ready  to  fly  out  in  the  common 
cause  againstany  new  competitor. 

Among  these  the  most  formidable  was  a  burly,  roaring, 
roystering  blade,  of  the  name  of  Abraham,  or,  according 
to  the  Dutch  abbreviation,  Brom  Van  Brunt,  the  hero  of 
the  country  round,  which  rang  with  his  feats  of  strength 
and  hardihood.  He  was  broad-shouldered  and  double- 
jointed,  with  short  curly  black  hair,  and  a  blufl",  but  not 
unpleasant vcountetiance,  having  a  mingled  air  of  fun  and 
arrogance.  From  his  Herculean  frame  and  great  powers 
of  limb,  ha  had  received  the  nickname  of  Brom  Bones,  by 
which  he  .was  universally  known.  He  was  famed  for 
great  knowledge  and  skill  in  horsemanship,  being  as  dex- 
terous on  horseback  as  a  Tartar.  He  was  foremost  at  all 
races  and  cock-fights;  and,  with  the  ascendency  which 
bodily  strength  acquires  in  rustic  life,  was  the  umpire  in 
all  disputes,  setting  his  hat  on  one  side,  and  giving  his 
decisions  with  an  air  and  tone  admitting  of  no  gainsay 
or  appeal.  He  was  always  ready  for  either  a  fight  or  a 
frolic ;  but  had  more  mischief  than  ill-will  in  his  compo- 
sition ;  and,  with  all  his  overbearing  roughness,  there  was 
a  strong  dash  of  waggish  good  humor  at  bottom.    He  had 


492  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

three  or  four  boon  companions,  who  regarded  him  as 
their  model,  and  at  the  head  of  whom  he  scoured  the 
country,  attending  every  scene  of  feud  or  merriment  for 
miles  round.  In  cold  weather  he  was  distinguished  by  a 
fur  cap,  surmounted  with  a  flaunting  fox's  tail ;  and  when 
the  folks  at  a  country  gathering  descried  this  well-known 
crest  at  a  distance,  whisking  about  among  a  squad  of 
hard  riders,  they  always  stood  by  for  a  squall.  Some- 
times his  crew  would  be  heard  dashing  along  past  the 
farmhouses  at  midnight,  with  whoop  and  halloo,  like  a 
troop  of  Don  Cossacks ;  and  the  old  dames,  startled  out 
of  their  sleep,  would  listen  for  a  moment  till  the  hurry- 
scurry  had  clattered  by,  and  then  exclaim,  "Ay,  there 
goes  Brom  Bones  and  his  gang!  "  The  neighbors  looked^ 
upon  him  with  a  mixture  of  awe,  admiration,  and  good 
will ;  and  when  any  madcap  prank,  or  rustic  brawl,  oc- 
curred in  the  vicinity,  always  shook  their  heads,  and 
warranted  Brom  Bones  was  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

This  rantipole  hero  had  for  some  time  singled  out  the 
blooming  Katrina  for  the  object  of  his  uncouth  gallan- 
tries, and  though  his  amorous  toyings  were  something 
like  the  gentle  caresses  and  endearments  of  a  bear,  yet  it 
was  whispered  that  she  did  not  altogether  discourage  his 
hopes.  Certain  it  is,  his  advances  were  signals  for  rival 
candidates  to  retire,  who  felt  no  inclination  to  cross  a 
lion  in  his  amours ;  insomuc}i,  that  when  his  horse  was 
seen  tied  to  Yan  Tassel's  paling,  on  a  Sunday  night,  a 
aura  sign  that  his  master  was  courting,  or,  as  it  is  termed, 


TEE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEP Y^^ HOLLOW.  493 

"sparking,"  within,  all  other  suitors  passed  by  in  despair, 
and  carried  the  war  into  other  quarters. 

Such  was  the  formidable  rival  with  whom  Ichabod 
Crane  had  to  contend,  and,  considering  all  things,  a 
stouter  man  than  he  would  have  shrunk  from  the  com- 
petition, and  a  wiser  man  would  have  despaired.  He 
had,  however^  a  happy  mixture  of  pliability  and  perse- 
verance in  his  nature ;  he  was  in  form  and  spirit  like  a 
supple-jack  —  yielding,  but  tough ;  though  he  bent,  he 
never  broke  ;  and  though  he  bowed  beneath  the  slightest 
pressure,  yet,  the  moment  it  was  away — ^jerk  !  he  was  as 
erect,  and  carried  his  head  as  high  as  ever. 
T^o  have  taken  the  field  openly  against  his  rival  would 
have  been  madness ;  for  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  thwarted 
in  his  amouys,  any  more  than  that  stormy  lover,  Achilles. 
Ichabod,  therefore,  made  his  advances  in  a  quiet  and 
gently-insinuating  manner.  Under  cover  of  his  charac- 
ter of  singing-master,  he  made  frequent  visits  at  the 
farmhouse ;  not  that  he  had  any  thing  to  apprehend 
from  the  meddlesome  interference  of  parents,  which  is 
so  often  a  stumbling-block  in  the  path  of  lovers.  Bait 
Yan  Tassel  was  an  easy  indulgent  soul;  he  loved  his 
daughter  better  even  than  his  pipe,  and,  like  a  reason- 
able man  and  an  excellent  father,  let  her  have  her  way  in 
every  thing.  His  notable  little  wife,  too,  had  enough  to 
do  to  attend  to  her  housekeeping  and  manage  her  poul- 
try; for,  as  she  sagely  observed,  ducks  and  geese  are 
foolish  things,  and  must  be  looked  after,  but  girls  can 


494  THE  8KETGE.B00K 

take  care  of  themselves.  Thus  while  the  busy  dame 
bustled  about  the  house,  or  plied  her  spinning-wheel  at 
one  end  of  the  piazza,  honest  Bait  would  sit  smoking  his 
evening  pipe  at  the  other,  watching  the  achievements  of 
a  little  wooden  warrior,  who,  armed  with  a  sword  in  each 
hand,  was  most  valiantly  fighting  the  wind  on  the  pinna- 
cle of  the  barn.  In  the  mean  time,  Ichabod  would  carry 
on  his  suit  with  the  daughter  by  the  side  of  the  spring 
under  the  great  elm,  or  sauntering  along  in  the  twilight, 
that  hour  so  favorable  to  the  lover's  eloquence. 

I  profess  not  to  know  how  women's  hearts  are  wooed 
and  won.  To  me  they  have  always  been  matters  of  rid- 
dle and  admiration.  Some  seem  to  have  but  onb  vul- 
nerable point,  or  door  of  access ;  while  others  have  a 
thousand  avenues,  and  may  be  captured  in  a  thousand 
different  ways.  It  is  a  great  triumph  of  skill  to  gain  the 
former,  but  a  still  greater  proof  of  generalsl^p  to  main- 
tain possession  of  the  latter,  for  the  man  must  battle  for 
his  fortress  at  every  door  and  window.  He  who  wins  a 
thousand  common  hearts  is  therefore  entitled  to  some 
renown;  but  he  who  keeps  undisputed  sway  over  the 
heart  of  a  coquette,  is  indeed  a  hero.  Certain  it  is,  this 
was  not  the  case  with  the  redoubtable  Brom  Bones ;  and 
from  the  moment  Ichabod  Crane  made  his  advances,  the 
interests  of  the  former  evidently  declined ;  his  horse  was 
no  longer  seen  tied  at  the  palings  on  Sunday  nights,  and 
a  deadly  feud  gradually  arose  between  him  and  the  pre* 
ceptor  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY" HOLLOW.  495 

Brom,  who  had  a  degree  of  rough  chivalry  in  his- na- 
ture, would  fain  have  carried  matters  to  open  warfare, 
and  have  settled  their  pretensions  to  the  lady,  according 
to  the  mode  of  those  most  concise  and  simple  reasoners, 
the  knights-errant  of  yore — ^by  single  combat ;  but  Icha- 
bod  was  too  conscious  of  the  superior  might  of  his  ad- 
versary to  enter  the  lists  against  him  :  he  had  overheard 
a  boast  of  Bones,  that  he  woilld  **  double  the  schoolmas- 
ter up,  and  lay  him  on  a  shelf  of  his  own  school-house ; " 
and  he  was  too  wary  to  give  him  an  opportunity.  There 
was  something  extremely  provoking  in  this  obstinately 
pacific  system;  it  left  Brom  no  alternative  but  to  draw 
upon  the  funds  of  rustic  waggery  in  his  disposition,  and 
to  play  off  boorish  practical  jokes  upon  his  rival.  Icha- 
bod  became vthe  object  of  whimsical  persecution  to  Bones, 
and  his  gang  of  rough  riders.  They  harried  his  hitherto 
peaceful  domains;  smoked  out  his  singing  school,  by 
stopping  up  the  chimney ;  broke  into  the  school-house 
at  night,  in  spite  of  its  formidable  fastenings  of  withe  and 
window  stakes,  and  turned  every  thing  topsy-turvy :  so 
that  the  poor  schoolmaster  began  to  think  all  the  witches 
in  the  country  held  their  meetings  there.  But  what  was 
still  more  annoying,  Brom  took  all  opportunities  of  turn- 
ing him  into  ridicule  in  presence  of  his  mistress,  and  had 
a  scoundrel  dog  whom  he  taught  to  whine  in  the  most 
ludicrous  manner,  and  introduced  as  a  rival  of  Ichabod's 
to  instruct  her  in  psalmody. 

In  this  way  matters  went  on  for  some  time,  without 


496  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

producing  any  material  effect  on  the  relative  situation  of 
the  contending  powers.  On  a  fine  autumnal  afternoon, 
Ichabod,  in  pensive  mood,  sat  enthroned  on  the  lofty  stool 
whence  he  usually  watched  all  the  concerns  of  his  little 
literary  realm.  In  his  hand  he  swayed  a  ferule,  that 
sceptre  of  despotic  power ;  the  birch  of  justice  reposed 
on  three  nails,  behind  the  throne,  a  constant  terror  to 
evil  doers ;  while  on  the  desk  before  him  might  be  seen 
sundry  contraband  articles  and  prohibited  weapons,  de- 
tected upon  the  persons  of  idle  urchins;  such  as  half- 
munched  apples,  popguns,  whirligigs,  fly-cages,  and  whole 
legions  of  rampant  little  paper  game-cocks.  Appar- 
ently there  had  been  some  appalling  act  of  justice  re- 
cently inflicted,  for  his  scholars  were  all  busily  ,  intent 
upon  their  books,  or  slyly  whispering  behind  them  with 
one  eye  kept  upon  the  master;  and  a  kind-  of  buzzing 
stillness  reigned  throughout  the  school^room.  It  was 
suddenly  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  a  negro,  in 
tow-cloth  jacket  and  trowsers,  a  round-crowned  fragment 
of  a  hat,  like  the  cap  of  Mercury,  and  mounted  on  the 
back  of  a  ragged,  wild,  half-broken  colt,  which  he  man- 
aged with  a  rope  by  way  of  halter.  He  came  clattering 
up  to  the  school  door  with  an  invitation  to  Ichabod  to 
attend  a  merry-making  or  "  quilting  frolic,"  to  be  held 
that  evening  at  Mynheer  Van  Tassel's;  and  having  de- 
livered  his  message  with  that  air  of  importance,  and 
effort  at  fine  language,  which  a  negro  is  apt  to  display 
on  petty  embassies  of  the  kind,  he  dashed  over  the  brook 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEP  T  ^OLLO  W.  497 

and  was  seen  scampering  away  up  the  hollow,  full  of  the 
importance  and  hnri-y  of  his  mission. 

All  was  now  bustle  and  hubbub  in  the  late  quiet 
school-room.  The  scholars  were  hurried  through  their 
lessons,  without  stopping  at  trifles ;  those  who  were  nim- 
ble skipped  over  half  with  impunity,  and  those  who  were 
tardy,  had  a  sniart  application  now  and  then  in  the  rear, 
to  quicken  their  speed,  or  help  them  over  a  tall  word. 
Books  were  flung  aside  without  being  put  away  on  the 
shelves,  inkstands  were  overturned,  benches  thrown 
down,  and  the  whole  school  was  turned  loose  an  hour 
before  the  usual  time,  bursting  forth  like  a  legion  of 
young  imps,  yelping  and  racketing  about  the  green,  in 
joy  at  their  early  emancipation. 

The  gallant  Ichabod  now  spent  at  least  an  extra  half 
hour  at  his  toilet,  brushing  and  furbishing  up  his  best, 
and  indeed  only  suit  of  rusty  black,  and  arranging  his 
looks  by  a  bit  of  broken  looking-glass,  that  hung  up  in 
the  school-house.  That  he  might  make  his  appearance 
before  his  mistress  in  the  true  style  of  a  cavalier,  he  bor- 
rowed a  horse  from  the  farmer  with  whom  he  was  domicil- 
iated, a  choleric  old  Dutchman,  of  the  name  of  Hans  Van 
liipper,  and,  thus  gallantly  mounted,  issued  forth,  like  a 
knight-errant  in  quest  of  adventures.  But  it  is  meet  I 
should,  in  the  true  spirit  of  romantic  story,  give  some  ac- 
count of  the  looks  and  equipments  of  my  hero  and  his 
steed.  The  animal  he  bestrode  was  a  broken-down 
plough-horse,  that  had  outlived  almost  every  thing  but 


498  ^-^^  SKETCH-BOOK, 

his  viciousne&s.  He  was  gaunt  and  shagged,  with  a  ewe 
neck  and  a  head  like  a  hammer ;  his  rusty  mane  and  tail 
were  tangled  and  knotted  with  burrs ;  one  eye  had  lost 
its  pupil,  and  was  glaring  and  spectral ;  but  the  other  had 
the  gleam  of  a  genuine  devil  in  it.  Still  he  must  have 
had  fire  and  mettle  in  his  day,  if  we  may  judge  from  the 
name  he  bore  of  Gunpowder.  He  had,  in  fact,  been  a  fa- 
vorite steed  of  his  master's,  the  choleric  Yan  Ripper,  who 
was  a  furious  rider,  and  had  infused,  very  probably,  some 
of  his  own  spirit  into  the  animal ;  for,  old  and  broken- 
down  as  he  looked,  ther6  was  more  of  the  lurking  d§vil  in 
him  than  in  any  young  filly  in  the  country. 

Ichabod  was  a  suitable  figure  for  such  a  steed.  He 
rode  with  short  stirrups,  which  brought  his  knees  nearly 
up  to  the  pommel  of  the  saddle ;  his  sharp  elbows  stuck 
out  like  grasshoppers' ;  he  carried  his  whip  perpendicu- 
larly in  his  hand,  like  a  sceptre,  and,  as  his  horse  jogged 
on,  the  motion  of  his  arms  was  not  unlike  the  flapping  of 
a  pair  of  wings.  A  small  wool  hat  rested  on  the  top  of 
his  nose,  for  so  his  scanty  strip  of  forehead  might  be 
called;  and  the  skirts  of  his  black  coat  fluttered  out 
almost  to  the  horse's  tail.  Such  was  the  appearance  of 
Ichabod  and  his  steed,  as  they  shambled  out  of  the  gate 
of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  it  was  altogether  such  an  appa- 
rition as  is  seldom  to  be  met  with  in  broad  daylight. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  fine  autumnal  day,  the  sky  was 
clear  and  serene,  and  nature  wore  that  rich  and  golden 
livery  which  we  always  associate  with  the  idea  of  abun- 


TEE  LBGENT>  OF  SLEEPY^ HOLLOW.  499 

dancGo  The  forests  had  put  on  their  sober  brown  and 
yellow,  while  some  trees  of  the  tenderer  kind  had  been 
nipped  by  the  frosts  into  brilliant  dyes  of  orange,  purple, 
and  scarlet.  Streaming  files  of  wild  ducks  began  to  make 
their  appearance  high  in  the  air ;  the  bark  of  the  squirrel 
might  be  heard  from  the  groves  of  beech  and  hickory 
nuts,  and  the  pensive  whistle  of  the  quail  at  intervals 
|rom  the  neighboring  stubble-field. 

The  small  birds  were  taking  their  farewell  banquets. 
In  the  fulness  of  their  revelry,  they  fluttered,  chirping 
and  frolicking,  from  bush  to  bush,  and  tree  to  tree,  capri- 
cious from  the  very  profusion  and  variety  around  them. 
There  was  the  honest  cock-robin,  the  favorite  game  of 
stripling  sportsmen,  with  its  loud  querulous  note ;  and 
the  twittering  blackbirds  flying  in  sable  clouds ;  and  the 
golden-winged  woodpecker,  with  his  crimson  crest,  his 
broad  black  gorget,  and  splendid  plumage ;  and  the  cedar 
bird,  with  its  red-tipt  wings  and  yellow-tipt  tail,  and  its 
little  monteiro  cap  of  feathers ;  and  the  blue-jay,  that 
noisy  coxcomb,  in  his  gay  light-blue  coat  and  white  un- 
der-clothes ;  screaming  and  chattering,  nodding  and  bob- 
bing and  bowing,  and  pretending  to  be  on  good  terms 
with  every  songster  of  the  grove. 

As  Ichabod  jogged  slowly  on  his  way,  his  eye,  ever 
open  to  every  symptom  of  culinary  abundance,  ranged 
with  delight  over  the  treasures  of  jolly  autumn.  On  all 
sides  he  beheld  vast  store  of  apples;  some  hanging  in 
oppressive  opulence  on  the  trees ;  some  gathered  into 


600  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

baskets  and  barrels  for  the  market ;  others  heaped  up  in 
rkh  piles  for  the  cider-press.  Farther  on  he  beheld  great 
fields  of  Indian  corn,  with  its  golden  ears  peeping  froin 
their  leafy  coverts,  and  holding  out  the  promise  of  cakes 
and  hasty  pudding ;  and  the  yellow  pumpkins  lying  be- 
neath them,  turning  up  their  fair  round  bellies  to  the 
sun,  and  giving  ample  prospects  of  the  most  luxurious  of 
pies ;  and  anon  he  passed  the  fragrant  buckwheat  fields, 
breathing  the  odor  of  the  bee-hive,  and  as  he  beheld 
them,  soft  anticipations  stole  over  his  mind  of  dainty 
slapjacks,  well  buttered,  and  garnished  with  honey  or 
treacle,  by  the  delicate  little  dimpled  hand  of  Katriha 
Van  Tassel. 

Thus  feeding  his  mind  with  many  sweet  thoughts  and 
"  sugared  suppositions,"  he  journeyed  along  the  sides  of 
a  range  of  hills  which  look  out  upon  some  of  the  good- 
liest scenes  of  the  mighty  Hudson.  The  sun  gradually 
wheeled  his  broad  disk  down  into  the  west.  The  wide 
bosom  of  the  Tappa'h  Zee  lay  motionless  and  glassy,  ex- 
cepting that  here  and  there  a  gentle  undulation  waved 
and  prolonged  the  blue  shadow  of  the  distant  mountain. 
A  few  amber  clouds  floated  in  the  sky,  without  a  breath 
of  air  to  move  them.  The  horizon  was  of  a  fine  golden 
tint,  changing  gradually  into  a  pure  apple  green,  and 
from  that  into  the  deep  blue  of  the  mid-heaven.  A  slant- 
ing ray  lingered  on  the  woody  crests  of  the  precipices 
that  overhung  some  parts  of  the  river,  giving  greater 
depth  to  the  dark-gray  and  purple  of  their  rocky  sides. 


TEE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPT^HOLLOW.  501 

A  sloop  was  loitering  in  the  distance,  dropping  slowly 
down  with  the  tide,  her  sail  hanging  uselessly  against  the 
mast ;  and  as  the  reflection  of  the  sky  gleamed  along  the 
still  water,  it  seemed  as  if  the  vessel  was  suspended  in 
the  air. 

It  was  toward  evening  that  Ichabod  arrived  at  the  cas- 
tle of  the  Heer  Van  Tassel,  which  he  found  thronged 
with  the  pride  and  flower  of  the  adjacent  country.  Old 
farmers,  a  spare  leathern-faced  race,  in  homespun  coats 
and  breeches,  blue  stockings,  huge  shoes,  and  magnifi- 
cent pewter  buckles.  Their  brisk  withered  little  dames, 
in  close  crimped  caps,  long-waisted  short-gowns^  home- 
spun petticoats,  with  scissors  and  pincushions,  and  gay 
calico  pockets  hanging  on  the  outside.  Buxom  lasses, 
almost  as  antiquated  as  their  mothers,  excepting  where 
a  straw  hat,  a  fine  ribbon,  or  perhaps  a  white  frock,  gave 
symptoms  of  city  innovation.  The  sons,  in  short  square- 
skirted  coats^with  rows  of  stupendous  brass  buttons,  and 
their  hair  generally  queued  in  the  fashion  of  the  times, 
especially  if  they  could  procure  an  eel-skin  for  the  pur- 
pose, it  being  esteemed,  throughout  the  country,  as  a 
potent  nourisher  and  strengthener  of  the  hair. 

Brom  Bones,  however,  was  the  hero  of  the  scene,  hav- 
ing come  to  the  gathering  on  his  favorite  steed  Dare- 
devil, a  creature,  like  himself,  full  of  mettle  and  mischief, 
and  which  no  one  but  himself  could  manage.  He  was,  in 
fact,  noted  for  preferring  vicious  animals,  given  to  all 
kinds  of  tricks,  which, kept  the  rider  in  constant  risk  of 


502  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

his  neck,  for  he  held  a  tractable  well-broken  horse  as 
unworthy  of  a  lad  of  spirit. 

Fain  would  I  pause  to  dwell  upon  the  world  of  charms 
that  burst  upon  the  enraptured  gaze  of  my  hero,  as  he 
entered  the  state  parlor  of  Yan  Tassel's  mansion.  Not 
those  of  the  bevy  of  buxom  lasses,  with  their  luxurious 
display  of  red  and  white  ;  but  the  ample  charms  of  a  gen- 
uine Dutch  country  tea-table,  in  the  sumptuous  time  of 
autumn.  Such  heaped-up  platters  of  cakes  of  various 
and  almost  indescribable  kinds,  known  only  to  expe- 
rienced Dutch  housewives!  There  was  the  doughty- 
dough-nut,  the  tenderer  oly  toek,  and  the  crisp  and 
crumbling  cruller;  sweet  ca^:es  and  short  cakes,  ginger 
cakes  and  honey  cakes,  and  the  whole  family  of  cakes. 
And  then  there  were  apple  pies  and  peach  pies  and  pump- 
kin pies ;  besides  slices  of  ham  and  smoked  beef ;  and 
moreover  delectable  dishes  of  preserved  plums,  and 
peaches,  and  pears,  and  quinces ;  not  to  mention  broiled 
shad  and  roasted  chickens ;  together  with  bowls  of  milk 
and  cream,  all  mingled  higgledy-piggledy,  pretty  much  as 
I  have  enumerated  them,  with  the  motherly  tea-pot  send- 
ing up  its  clouds  of  vapor  from  the  midst' — Heaven  bless 
the  mark !  I  want  breath  and  time  to  discuss  this  ban- 
quet as  it  deserves,  and  am  too  eager  to  get  on  with  my 
story.  Happily,  Ichabod  Crane  was  not  in  so  great  a 
hurry  as  his  historian,  but  did  ample  justice  to  every 
dainty. 

He  was  a  kind  and  thankful  creature,  whoso  heart 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEP T- HOLLOW,  503 

dilated  in  proportion  as  his  skin  was  filled  with  good 
cheer ;  and  whose  spirits  rose  with  eating  as  some  men's 
do  with  drink.  He  could  not  help,  too,  rolling  his  large 
eyes  round  him  as  he  ate,  and  chuckling  with  the  possi- 
bility that  he  might  one  day  be  lord  of  all  this  scene 
of  almost  unimaginable  luxury  and  splendor.  Then,  he 
thought,  how  -soon  he'd  turn  his  back  upon  the  old 
school-house ;  siiap  his  fingers  in  the  face  of  Hans  Yan 
Kipper,  and  every  other  niggardly  patron,  and  kick  any 
itinerant  pedagogue  out  of  doors  that  should  dare  to  call 
him  comrade ! 

Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  moved  about  among  his  guests 
with  a  face  dilated  with  content  and  good  humor,  round 
and  jolly  as  the  harvest  moon.  His  hospitable  attentions 
were  brief,  but  expressive,  being  confined  to  a  shake  of 
the  hand,  a  slap  on  the  shoulder,  a  loud  laugh,  and  a 
pressing  invitation  to  "  fall  to,  and  help  themselves." 

And  now  ,the  sound  of  the  music  from  the  common 
room,  or  hall,  summoned  to  the  dance.  The  musician 
was  an  old  grayheaded  negro,  who  had  been  the  itinerant 
orchestra  of  the  neighborhood  for  more  than  half  a  cen- 
tury. His  instrument  was  as  old  and  battered  as  himself. 
The  greater  part  of  the  time  he  scraped  on  two  or  three 
strings,  accompanying  every  movement  of  the  bow  with  a 
motion  of  the  head ;  bowing  almost  to  the  ground,  and 
stamping  with  his  foot  whenever  a  fresh  couple  were  to 
start. 

Ichabod  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing  as  much  as 


504  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

upon  liis  vocal  powers.  Not  a  limb,  not  a  fibre  about  him 
was  idle  ;  and  to  have  seen  his  loosely  hung  frame  -in  full 
motion,  and  clattering  about  the  room,  you  would  have 
thought  Saint  Yitus  himself,  that  blessed  patron  of  the 
dance,  was  figuring  before  you  in  person.  He  was  the  ad- 
miration of  all  the  negroes ;  who,  having  gathered,  of  all 
ages  and  sizes,  from  the  farm  and  the  neighborhood, 
stood  formiDg  a  pyramid  of  shining  black  faces  at  every 
door  and  window,  gazing  with  delight  at  the  scene,  roll- 
ing their  white  eye-balls,  and  showing  grinning  rows  of 
ivory  from  ear  to  ear.  How  could  the  flogger  of  urchins 
be  otherwise  than  animated  and  joyous  ?  the  lady  of  hisi 
heart  was  his  partner  in  the  dance,  and  smiling  gra- 
ciously in  reply  to  all  his  amorous  oglings  ;  while  Brom 
Bones,  sorely  smitten  with  love  and  jealousy,  sat  brood- 
ing by  himself  in  one  corner. 

When  the  dance  was  at  an  end,  Ichabod  was  attracted 
to  a  knot  of  the  sager  folks,  who,  with  old  Van  Tassel, 
sat  smoking  at  one  end  of  the  piazza,  gossiping  over  for- 
mer times,  and  drawing  out  long  stories  about  the  war. 

This  neighborhood,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  speak- 
ing, was  one  of  those  highly-favored  places  which  abound 
with  chronicle  and  great  men.  The  British  and  Ameri- 
can line  had  run  near  it  during  the  war ;  it  had,  there- 
fore, been  the  scene  of  marauding,  and  infested  with 
refugees,  cow-boys,  and  all  kinds  of  border  chivalry. 
Just  sufficient  time  had  elapsed  to  enable  each  story- 
teller to  dress  up  his  tale  with  a  little  becoming  fiction, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  ^HOLLOW,  505 

and,  in  the  indistinctness   of  his   recollection,  to   make 
himself  the  hero  of  every  exploit. 

There  was  the  storj  of  Doffue  Martling,  a  large  blue- 
bearded  Dutchman,  who  had  nearly  taken  a  British  frig- 
ate with  an  old  iron  nine-pounder  from  a  mud  breast- 
work, only  that  his  gun  burst  at  the  sixth  dischargOo 
And  there  was  an  old  gentleman  who  shall  be  nameless, 
being  too  rich  a  mynheer  to  be  lightly  mentioned,  who,  in 
the  battle  of  White-plains,  being  an  excellent  master  of 
defence,  parried  a  musket  ball  with  a  small  sword,  inso- 
much that  he  absolutely  felt  it  wliiz  round  the  blade,  and 
glance  off  at  the  hilt :  in  proof  of  which,  he  was  ready 
at  any  time  to  show  the  sword,  with  the  hilt  a  little  bent. 
There  were  several  more  that  had  been  equally  great  in 
the  field,  not  pne  of  whom  but  was  persuaded  that  he  had 
a  considerable  hand  in  bringing  the  war  to  a  happy  ter- 
mination. 

But  all  these  were  nothing  to  the  tales  of  ghosts  and 
apparitions  that  succeeded.  The  neighborhood  is  rich 
in  legendary  treasures  of  the  kind.  Local  tales  and  su- 
perstitions thrive  best  in  these  sheltered  long-settled 
retreats;  but  are  trampled  under  foot  by  the'  shifting 
throng  that  forms  the  population  of  most  of  our  country 
places.  Besides,  there  is  no  encouragement  for  ghosts 
m  most  of  our  villages,  for  they  have  scarcely  had  time 
to  finish  their  first  nap,  and  turn  themselves  in  their 
graves,  before  their  surviving  friends  have  travelled  away 
from  the  neighborhood;  so  that  when  they  turn  out  at 


506  TEE  sketch-book, 

night  to  walk  their  rounds,  they  have  no  acquaintance 
left  to  call  upon.  This  is  perhaps  the  reason  why  we  so 
seldom  hear  of  ghosts  except  in  our  long-established 
Dutch  communities. 

The  immediate  cause,  however,  of  the  prevalence  of 
supernatural  stories  in  these  parts,  was  doubtless  owing 
to  the  vicinity  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  There  was  a  contagion 
in  the  very  air  that  blew  from  that  haunted  region;  it 
breathed  forth  an  atmosphere  of  dreams  and  fancies  in- 
fecting all  the  land.  Several  of  the  Sleepy  Hollow  peo- 
ple were  present  at  Yan  Tassel's,  and,  as  usual,  were 
doling  out  their  wild  and  wonderful  legends.  Many  dis- 
mal tales  were  told  about  funeral  trains,  and  mourning 
cries  and  wailings  heard  and  seen  about  the  great  tree 
where  the  unfortunate  Major  Andre  was  taken,  and  which 
stood  in  the  neighborhood.  Some  mention  was  made 
also  of  the  woman  in  white,  that  haunted  the  dark  glen 
at  Eaven  Eock,  and  was  often  heard  to  shriek  on  winter 
nights  before  a  storm,  having  perished  there  in  the  snow. 
The  chief  part  of  the  stories,  however,  turned  upon  the 
favorite  spectre  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  the  headless  horse^ 
man,  who  had  been  heard  several  times  of  late,  patrol^ 
ling  the  country ;  and,  it  was  said,  tethered  his  horse 
nightly  among  the  graves  in  the  church-yard. 

The  sequestered  situation  of  this  church  seems  always 
to  have  made  it  a  favorite  haunt  of  troubled  spirits.  It 
stands  on  a  knoll,  surrounded  by  locust-trees  and  lofty 
elms,  from  among  which  its  decent  whitewashed  walls 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  507 

shine  modestly  forth,  like  Christian  purity  beaming 
through  the  shades  of  retirement.  A  gentle  slope  de- 
scends from  it  to  a  silver  sheet  of  water,  bordered  by 
high  trees,  between  which,  peeps  may  be  caught  at  the 
blue  hills  of  the  Hudson.  To  look  upon  its  grass-grown 
yard,  where  the  sunbeams  seem  to  sleep  so  quietly,  one 
would  think  that  there  at  least  the  dead  might  rest  in 
peace.  On  one  side  of  the  church  extends  a  wide  woody 
dell,  along  which  raves  a  large  brook  among  broken 
rocks  and  trunks  of  fallen  trees.  Over  a  deep  black  part 
of  the  stream,  not  far  from  the  church,  was  formerly 
thrown  a  wooden  bridge ;  the  road  that  led  to  it,  and 
the  bridge  itself,  were  thickly  shaded  by  overhanging 
trees,  which  cast  a  gloom  about  it,  even  in  the  daytime ; 
but  occasioned  a  fearful  darkness  at  night.  This  was 
one  of  the  favorite  haunts  of  the  headless  horseman ;  and 
the  place  where  he  was  most  frequently  encountered. 
The  tale  was  told  of  old  Brouwer,  a  most  heretical  dis- 
believer in  ghosts,  how  he  met  the  horseman  returning 
from  his  foray  into  Sleepy  Hollow,  and  was  obliged  to 
get  up  behind  him ;  how  they  galloped  over  bush  and 
brake,  over  hill  and  swamp,  until  they  reached  the 
bridge ;  when  the  horseman  suddenly  turned  into  a  skel- 
eton, threw  old  Brouwer  into  the  brook,  and  sprang 
away  over  the  tree-tops  with  a  clap  of  thunder. 

This  story  was  immediately  matched  by  a  thrice  mar- 
vellous adventure  of  Brom  Bones,  who  made  light  of  the 
galloping  Hessian  as  an  arrant  jockey.      He   affirmed 


508  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK 

that,  on  returning  one  night  from  the  neighboring  vil- 
lage of  Sing  Sing,  he  had  been  overtaken  by  this  mid- 
night trooper;  that  he  had  offered  to  race  with  him  for 
a  bowl  of  punch,  and  should  have  won  it  too,  for  Dare- 
devil beat  the  goblin  horse  all  hollow,  but,  just  as  they 
came  to  the  church  bridge,  the  Hessian  bolted,  and  van- 
ished in  a  flash  of  fire. 

All  these  tales,  told  in  that  drowsy  undertone  with 
which  men  talk  in  the  dark,  the  countenances  of  the 
listeners  only  now  and  then  receiving  a  casual  gleam 
from  the  glare  of  a  pipe,  sank  deep  in  the  mind  of  Ich- 
abod.  He  repaid  them  in  kind  with  large  extracts  from 
his  invaluable  author.  Cotton  Mather,  and  added  many 
marvellous  events  that  had  taken  place  in  his  native 
State  of  Connecticut,  and  fearful  sights  which  he  had 
seen  in  his  nightly  walks  about  Sleepy  Hollow. 

The  revel  now  gradually  broke  up.  The  old  farmers 
gathered  together  their  families  in  their  wagons,  and 
were  heard  for  some  time  rattling  along  the  hollow 
roads,  and  over  the  distant  hills.  Some  of  the  damsels 
mounted  on  pillions  behind  their  favorite  swains,  and 
their  light-hearted  laughter,  mingling  with  the  clatter  of 
hoofs,  echoed  along  the  silent  woodlands,  sounding  faint- 
er and  fainter  until  they  gradually  died  away — and  the 
late  scene  of  noise  and  frolic  was  all  silent  and  deserted. 
Ichabod  only  lingered  behind,  according  to  the  custom  of 
country  lovers,  to  have  a  tete-a-tete  with  the  heiress,  fully 
convinced  that  he  was  now  on  the  high  road  to  success. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  8LEEPY  HOLLOW.  509 

Wiiat  passed  at  tliis  interview  I  will  not  pretend  to  say, 
for  in  fact  I  do  not  know.  Something,  however,  I  fear 
me,  must  have  gone  wrong,  for  he  certainly  sallied  forth, 
after  no  very  great  interval,  with  an  air  quite  desolate  and 
chop-fallen. — Oh  these  women !  these  women !  Could  that 
girl  hav^  been  playing  off  any  of  her  coquettish  tricks  ? — ■ 
Was  her  encouragement  of  the  poor  pedagogue  all  a  mere 
sham  to  secure  her  conquest  of  his  rival? — Heaven  only 
knows,  not  I ! — Let  it  suffice  to  say,  Ichabod  stole  forth 
with  the  air  of  one  who  had  been  sacking  a  hen-roost, 
rather  than  a  fair  lady's  heart.  Without  looking  to  the 
right  or  left  to  notice  the  scene  of  rural  wealth,  on  which 
he  had  so  often  gloated,  he  went  straight  to  the  stable, 
and  with  several  hearty  cuffs  and  kicks,  roused  his  steed 
most  uncourteously  from  the  comfortable  quarters  in 
which  he  was  soundly  sleeping,  dreaming  of  mountains 
of  corn  and  oats,  and  whole  valleys  of  timothy  and 
clover.  "^    ^ 

It  was  the  very  witching  time  of  night  that  Ichabod, 
heavy-hearted  and  crest-fallen,  pursued  his  travel  home- 
wards, along  the  sides  of  the  lofty  hills  which  rise  above 
Tarry  Town,  and  which  he  had  traversed  so  cheerily  in 
the  afternoon.  The  hour  was  as  dismal  as  himself.  Far 
below  him,  the  Tappan  Zee  spread  its  dusky  and  indis- 
tinct waste  of  waters,  with  here  and  there  the  tall  mast  of 
a  sloop,  riding  quietly  at  anchor  under  the  land.  In  the 
dead  hush  of  midnight,  he  could  even  hear  the  barking  of 
the  watch  dog  from  the  opposite  shore  of  the  Hudson ; 


510  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

but  it  was  so  vague  and  faint  as  only  to  give  an  idea  of 
his  distance  from  this  faithful  companion  of  man.  Now 
and  then,  too,  the  long-drawn  crowing  of  a  cock,  acciden- 
tally awakened,  would  sound  far,  far  off,  from  some  farm- 
house away  among  the  hills — but  it  was  like  a  dreaming 
sound  in  his  ear.  No  signs  of  life  occurred  near  him,  but 
occasionally  the  melancholy  chirp  of  a  cricket,  or  perhaps 
the  guttural  twang  of  a  bull -frog,  from  a  neighboring 
marsh,  as  if  sleeping  uncomfortably,  and  turning  sud- 
denly in  his  bed. 

All  the  stories  of  ghosts  and  goblins  that  he  had  heard 
in  the  afternoon,  now  came  crowding  upon  his  recollec- 
tion. The  night  grew  darker  and  darker;  the  stars 
seemed  to  sink  deeper  in  the  sky,  and  driving  clouds  oc- 
casionally hid  them  from  his  sight.  He  had  never  felt,  so 
lonely  and  dismal.  He  was,  moreover,  approaching  the 
very  place  where  many,  of  the  scenes  of  the  ghost  stories 
had  been  laid.  In  the  centre  of  the  road  stood  an  enor- 
mous tulip-tree,  which  towered  like  a  giant  above  all  the 
other  trees  of  the  neighborhood,  and  formed  a  kind  of 
landmark.  Its  limbs  were  gnarled,  and  fantastic,  large 
enough  to  form  trunks  for  ordinary  trees,  twisting  down 
almost  to  the  earth,  and  rising  again  into  the  air.  It 
was  connected  with  the  tragical  story  of  the  unfortunate 
Andre,  who  had  been  taken  prisoner  hard  by ;  and  was 
universally  known  by  the  name  of  Major  Andre's  tree. 
The  common  people  regarded  it  with  a  mixture  of  re- 
spect and  superstition,  partly  out  of  sympathy  for  the 


THE  LEGEND  OF  8LEEPT  HOLLOW.  611 

fate  of  its  ill-starred  namesake,  and  partly  from  the  tales 
of  strange  sights  and  doleful  lamentations  told  concern- 
ing it. 

As  Ichabod  approached  this  fearful  tree,  he  began  to 
whistle:  he  thought  his  whistle  was  answered — it  was 
but  a  blast  sweeping  sharply  through  the  dry  branches. 
As  he  approached  a  little  nearer,  he  thought  he  saw 
something  white,  hanging  in  the  midst  of  the  tree — he 
paused  and  ceased  whistling ;  but  on  looking  more  nar- 
rowly, perceived  that  it  was  a  place  where  the  tree  had 
been  scathed  by  lightning,  and  the  white  wood  laid  bare. 
Suddenly  he  heard  a  groan — his  teeth  chattered  and  his 
knees  smote  against  the  saddle  :  it  was  but  the  rubbing 
of  one  huge  bough  upon  another,  as  they  were  swayed 
about  by  the  breeze.  He  passed  the  tree  in  safety,  but 
new  perils  lay  before  him. 

About  two  hundred  yards  from  the  tree  a  small  brook 
crossed  the  road,  and  ran  into  a  marshy  and  thickly- 
wooded  glen,  known  by  the  name  of  Wiley's  swamp.  A 
few  rough  logs,  laid  side  by  side,  served  for  a  bridge  over 
this  stream.  On  that  side  of  the  road  where  the  brook 
entered  the  wood,  a  group  of  oaks  and  chestnuts,  matted 
thick  with  wild  grapevines,  threw  a  cavernous  gloom  over 
it.  To  pass  this  bridge  was  the  severest  trial.  It  was  at 
fchis  identical  spot  that  the  unfortunate  Andre  was  cap- 
tured, and  under  the  covert  of  those  chestnuts  and  vines 
were  the  sturdy  yeomen  concealed  who  surprised  him. 
This  has  ever  since  been  considered  a  haunted  stream, 


512  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  fearful  are  tlie  feelings  of  tlie  schoolboy  who  has  td 
pass  it  alone  after  dark. 

As  he  approached  the  stream  his  heart  began  to 
thump ;  he  summoned  up,  however,  all  his  resolution, 
gave  his  horse  half  a  score  of  kicks  in  the  ribs,  and  at- 
tempted to  dash  briskly  across  the  bridge  ;  but  instead  of 
starting  forward,  the  perverse  old  animal  made  a  lateral 
movement,  and  ran  broadside  against  the  fence.  Icha- 
bod,  whose  fears  increased  with  the  delay,  jerked  the 
reins  on  the  other  side,  and  kicked  lustily  with  the  con- 
trary foot :  it  was  all  in  vain ;  his  steed  started,  it  is  true, 
but  it  was  only  to  plunge  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  road 
into  a  thicket  of  brambles  and  alder  bushes.  The  school- 
master now  bestowed  both  whip  and  heel  upon  the 
starveling  ribs  of  old  Gunpowder,  who  dashed  forward, 
snuffling  and  snorting,  but  came  to  a  stand  just  by  the 
bridge,  with  a  suddenness  that  had  nearly  sent  his  rider 
sprawling  over  his  head.  Just  at  this  moment  a  plashy 
tramp  by  the  side  of  the  bridge  caught  the  sensitive  ear 
of  Ichabod.  In  the  dark  shadow  of  the  grove,  on  the 
margin  of  the  brook,  he  beheld  something  huge,  mis- 
shapen, black  and  towering.  It  stirred  not,  but  seemed 
gathered  up  in  the  gloom,  like  some  gigantic  monster 
ready  to  spring  upon  the  traveller. 

The  hair  of  the  affrighted  pedagogue  rose  upon  his 
head  with  terror.  "What  was  to  be  done  ?  To  turn  and 
fly  was  now  too  late  ;  and  besides,  what  chance  was  there 
of  escaping  ghost  or  goblin,  if  such  it  was,  which  could 


V 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  BOLLOW.  513 

ride  upon  tlie  wings  of  the  wind?  Summoning  up,  there- 
fore, a  show  of  courage,  he  demanded  in  stammering 
accents — ^'  Who  are  you  ?  "  He  received  no  reply.  He 
repeated  his  demand  in  a  still  more  agitated  voice.  Still 
there  was  no  answer.  Once  more  he  cudgelled  the  sides 
of  the  -  inflexible  Gunpowder,  and,  shutting  his  eyes, 
broke  forth  with  involuntary  fervor  into  a  psalm  tune. 
Just  then  the  shadowy  object  of  alarm  put  itself  in 
motion,  and,  with  a  scramble  and  a  bound,  stood  at  once 
in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Though  the  night  was  dark 
and  dismal,  yet  the  form  of  the  unknown  might  now  in 
some  degree  be  ascertained.  He  appeared  to  be  a  horse- 
man of  large  dimensions,  and  mounted  on  a  black  horse 
of  powerful  frame.  He  made  no  offer  of  molestation  or 
sociability,  but  kept  aloof  on  one  side  of  the  road,  jogging 
along  on  the  blind  side  of  old  Gunpowder,  who  had  now 
got  over  his  fright  and  waywardness. 

Ichabod,  who  had  no  relish  for  this  strange  midnight 
companion,  and  bethought  himself  of  the  adventure  of 
Brom  Bones  with  the  Galloping  Hessian,  now  quickened 
his  steed,  in  hopes  of  leaving  him  behind.  The  stranger, 
however,  quickened  his  horse  to  an  equal  pace.  Ichabod 
pulled  up,  and  fell  into  a  walk,  thinking  to  lag  behind — 
the  other  did  the  same.  His  heart  began  to  sink  within 
him ;  he  endeavored  to  resume  his  psalm  tune,  but  his 
parched  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  and  he 
could  not  utter  a  stave.  There  was  something  in  the 
moody  and  dogged  silence  of  this  pertinacious  compan- 


514  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

ion,  that  was  mysterious  and  appalling.  It  was  soon 
fearfully  accounted  for.  On  mounting  a  rising  ground, 
whicli  brought  the  figure  of  his  fellow-traveller  in  relief 
against  the  sky,  gigantic  in  height,  and  muffled  in  a 
cloak,  Ichabod  was  horror-struck,  on  perceiving  that  he 
was  headless ! — but  his  horror  was  still  more  increased, 
on  observing  that  the  head,  which  should  have  rested  on 
his  shoulders,  was  carried  before  him  on  the  pommel  of 
the  saddle :  his  terror  rose  to  desperation ;  he  rained  a 
shower  of  kicks  and  blows  upon  Gunpowder,  hoping,  by 
a  sudden  movement,  to  give  his  companion  the  slip — ^biit 
the  spectre  started  full  jump  with  him.  Away  then  they 
dashed,  through  thick  and  thin ;  stones  flying,  and  sparks 
flashing  at  every  bound.  Ichabod's  flimsy  garments  flut- 
tered in  the  air,  as  he  stretched  his  long  lank  body  away 
over  his  horse's  head,  in  the  eagerness  of  his  flight. 

They  had  now  reached  the  road  which  turns  off  to 
Sleepy  Hollow;  but  Gunpowder,  who  seemed  possessed 
with  a  demon,  instead  of  keeping  up  it,  made  an  opposite 
turn,  and  plunged  headlong  down  hill  to  the  left.  This 
road  leads  through  a  sandy  hollow,  shaded  by  trees  for 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  where  it  crosses  the  bridge 
famous  in  goblin  story,  and  just  beyond  swells  the  green 
knoll  on  which  stands  the  whitewashed  church. 

As  yet  the  panic  of  the  steed  had  given  his  unskilful 
rider  an  apparent  advantage  in  the  chase ;  but  just  as  he 
had  got  half  way  through  the  hollow,  the  girths  of  the 
saddle  gave  way,  and  he  felt  it  slipping  from  under  him. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  516 

He  seized  it  by  the  pommel,  and  endeavored  to  hold  it 
firm,  but  in  vain  ;  and  had  just  time  to  save  himself  by 
clasping  old  Gunpowder  round  the  neck,  when  the  saddle 
fell  to  the  earth,  and  he  heard  it  trampled  under  foot  by 
his  pursuer.  For  a  moment  the  terror  of  Hans  Yan  Kip- 
per's wrath  passed  across  his  mind — for  it  was  his  Sun- 
day saddle ;  but  this  was  no  time  for  petty  fears ;  the 
goblin  was  hard  on  his  haunches ;  and  (unskilful  rider 
that  he  was!)  he  had  much  ado  to  maintain  his  seat; 
sometimes  slipping  on  one  side,  sometimes  on  another, 
and  sometimes  jolted  on  the  high  ridge  of  his  horse's 
back-bone,  with  a  violence  that  he  verily  feared  would 
cleave  him  asunder. 

An,  opening  in  the  trees  now  cheered  him  with  the 
hopes  that  the  church  bridge  was  at  hand.  The  waver- 
ing reflection  of  a  silver  star  in  the  bosom  of  the  brook 
told  him  that  he  was  not  mistaken.  He  saw  the  walls  of 
the  church  dimly  glaring  under  the  trees  beyond.  He 
recollected  the  place  where  Brom  Bones' s  ghostly  com- 
petitor had  disappeared.  "If  I  can  but  reach  that 
bridge,"  thought  Ichabod,  "I  am  safe."  Just  then  he 
heard  the  black  steed  panting  and  blowing  close  behind 
him ;  he  even  fancied  that  he  felt  his  hot  breath.  An- 
other convulsive  kick  in  the  ribs,  and  old  Gunpowder 
sprang  upon  the  bridge  ;  he  thundered  over  the  resound- 
ing planks ;  he  gained  the  opposite  side ;  and  now  Icha- 
bod cast  a  look  behind  to  see  if  his  pursuer  should  van- 
ish, according  to  rule,  in  a  flash  of  fire  and  brimstone. 


516  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Just  then  lie  saw  the  goblin  rising  in  his  stirrups,  and  in 
the  very  act  of  hurling  his  head  at  him.  Ichabod  en- 
deavored to  dodge  the  horrible  missile,  but  too  late.  It 
encountered  his  cranium  with  a  tremendous  crash— he 
was  tumbled  headlong  into  the  dust,  and  Gunpowder,  the 
black  steed,  and  the  goblin  rider,  passed  by  like  a  whirl- 
wind. 

The  next  morning  the  old  horse  was  found  without  his 
saddle,  and  with  the  bridle  under  his  feet,  soberly  crop- 
ping the  grass  at  his  master's  gate.  Ichabod  did  not 
make  his  appearance  at  breakfast — dinner-hour  came, 
but  no  Ichabod.  The  boys  assembled  at  the  school- 
house,  and  strolled  idly  about  the  banks  of  the  brook ; 
but  no  school-master.  Hans  Van  Eipper  now  began  to 
feel  some  uneasiness  about  the  fate  of  poor  Ichabod,  and 
his  saddle.  An  inquiry  was  set  on  foot,  and  after  dili- 
gent investigation  they  came  upon  his  traces.  In  one 
part  of  the  road  leading  to  the  church  was  found  the 
saddle  trampled  in  the  dirt ;  the  tracks  of  horses'  hoofs 
deeply  dented  in  the  road,  and  evidently  at  furious  speed, 
were  traced  to  the  bridge,  beyond  which,  on  the  bank  of 
a  broad  part  of  the  brook,  where  the  water  ran  deep  and 
black,  was  found  the  hat  of  the  unfortunate  Ichabod,  and 
close  beside  it  a  shattered  pumpkin. 

The  brook  was  searched,  but  the  body  of  the  school- 
master was  not  to  be  discovered.  Hans  Yan  Eipper,  as 
executor  of  his  estate,  examined  the  bundle  which  con- 
tained all  his  worldly  effects.     They  consisted  of  two 


TEE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  517 

shirts  and  a  half ;  two  stocks  for  the  neck ;  a  pair  or  two 
of  worsted  stockings ;  an  old  pair  of  corduroy  small- 
clothes ;  a  rusty  razor ;  a  book  of  psalm  tunes,  full  of 
dogs'  ears;  and  a  broken  pitchpipe.  As  to  the  books 
and  furniture  of  the  school-house,  they  belonged  to  the 
community,  excepting  Cotton  Mather's  History  of  Witch- 
craft, a  New  England  Almanac,  and  a  book  of  dreams  and 
fortune-telling ;  in  which  last  was  a  sheet  of  foolscap 
much  scribbled  and  blotted  in  several  fruitlf  .s  attempts 
to  make  a  copy  of  verses  in  honor  of  the  heiress  of  Yan 
Tassel.  These  magic  books  and  the  poetic  scrawl  were 
forthwith  consigned  to  the  flames  by  Hans  Van  Ripper ; 
who  from  that  time  forward  determined  to  send  his  chil- 
dren no  more  to  school ;  observing,  that  he  never  knew 
any  good  come  of  this  same  reading  and  writing.  What- 
ever money  the  schoolmaster  possessed,  and  he  had  re- 
ceived his  quarter's  pay  but  a  day  or  two  before,  he  must 
have  had  about  his  person  at  the  time  of  his  disappear- 
ance. 

The  mysterious  event  caused  much  speculation  at  the 
church  on  the  following  Sunday.  Knots  of  gazers  and 
gossips  were  collected  in  the  churchyard,  at  the  bridge, 
and  at  the  spot  where  the  hat  and  pumpkin  had  been 
found.  The  stories  of  Brouwer,  of  Bones,  and  a  whole 
budget  of  others,  were  called  to  mind ;  and  when  they 
had  diligently  considered  them  all,  and  compared  them 
with  the  symptoms  of  the  present  case,  they  shook  their 
heads,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Ichabod  had  been 


518  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

carried  off  by  the  galloping  Hessian.  As  he  was  a  bach- 
elor, and  in  nobody's  debt,  nobody  troubled  his  head  any 
more  about  him.  The  school  was  removed  to  a  differ- 
ent quarter  of  the  hollow,  and  another  pedagogue  reigned 
in  his  stead. 

It  is  true,  an  old  farmer,  who  had  been  down  to  New 
York  on  a  visit  several  years  after,  and  from  whom  this 
account  of  the  ghostly  adventure  was  received,  brought 
home  the  intelligence  that  Ichabod  Crane  was  still  alive  ; 
that  he  had  left  the  neighborhood,  partly  through  fear  of 
the  goblin  and  Hans  Van  Kipper,  and  partly  in  mortifica- 
tion at  having  been  suddenly  dismissed  by  the  heiress ; 
that  he  had  changed  his  quarters  to  a  distant  part,  of  the 
country  ;  had  kept  school  and  studied  law  at  the  same 
time,  had  been  admitted  to  the  bar,  turned  politician, 
electioneered,  written  for  the  newspapers,  and  finally  had 
been  made  a  justice  of  the  Ten  Pound  Court.  Brom 
Bones  too,  who  shortly  after  his  rival's  disappearance 
conducted  the  blooming  Katrina  in  triumph  to  the  altar, 
was  observed  to  look  exceedingly  knowing  whenever  the 
story  of  Ichabod  was  related,  and  always  burst  into  a 
hearty  laugh  at  the  mention  of  the  pumpkin ;  which  led 
some  to  suspect  that  he  knew  more  about  the  matter 
than  he  chose  to  tell. 

The  old  country  wives,  however,  who  are  the  best 
judges  of  these  matters,  maintain  to  this  day  that  Icha- 
bod was  spirited  away  by  supernatural  means  ;  and  it  is 
a  favorite  story  often  told  about  the  neighborhood  round 


TEE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  519 

the  winter  evening  fire.  The  bridge  became  more  than 
ever  an  object  of  superstitious  awe,  and  that  may  be  the 
reason  why  the  road  has  been  altered  of  late  years,  so  as 
to  approach  the  church  by  the  border  of  the  mill-pond. 
The  school-house  being  deserted,  soon  fell  to  decay,  and 
was  reported  to  be  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  the  unfortu- 
nate pedagogue ;  and  the  ploughboy,  loitering  homeward 
of  a  still  summer  evening,  has  often  fancied  his  voice  at  a 
distance,  chanting  a  melancholy  psalm  tune  among  the 
tranquil  solitudes  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 


POSTSCEIPT, 

FOUND  IN  THE  HANDWRITING  OF  MR,  KNICKERBOCKER. 

The  preceding  Tale  is  given,  almost  in  the  precise  words  in  which  1 
heard  it  related  at  a  Corporation  meeting  of  the  ancient  city  of  Manhat- 
toes,  at  which  were  present  many  of  its  sagest  and  most  illustrious 
burghers.  The  narrator  was  a  pleasant,  shabby,  gentlemanly  old  fel- 
low, in  pepper-and-salt  clothes,  with  a  sadly  humorous  face;  and  one 
whom  I  strongly  suspected  of  being  poor, — he  made  such  efforts  to  be 
entertaining.  When  his  story  was  concluded,  there  was  much  laughter 
and  approbation,  particularly  from  two  or  three  deputy  aldermen,  who 
had  been  asleep  a  greater  part  of  the  time.  There  was,  however,  one 
tall,  dry-looking  old  gentleman,  with  beetling  eyebrows,  who  maintained 
a  grave  and  rather  severe  face  throughout:  now  and  then  folding  his 
arms,  inclining  his  head,  and  looking  down  upon  the  floor,  as  if  turning 
a  doubt  over  in  his  mind.  He  was  one  of  your  wary  men,  who  never 
laugh,  but  upon  good  grounds — when  they  have  reason  and  the  law  on  their 
side.  When  the  mirth  of  the  rest  of  the  company  had  subsided,  and 
silence  was  restored,  he  leaned  one  arm  on  the  elbow  of  his  chair,  and, 
sticking  the  other  akimbo,  demanded,  with  a  slight  but  exceedingly  sage 
motion  of  the  head,  and  contraction  of  the  brow,  what  was  the  moral  of 
the  story,  and  what  it  went  to  prove  ? 

The  story-teller,  who  was  just  putting  a  glass  of  wine  to  his  lips,  as  a 
refreshment  after  his  toils,  paused  for  a  moment,  looked  at  his  inquirer 
with  an  air  of  infinite  deference,  and,  lowering  the  glass  slowly  to  the 
table,  observed,  that  the  story  was  intended  most  logically  to  prove : — 

*'That  there  is  no  situation  in  life  but  has  its  advantages  and  pleas- 
ures— ^provided  we  will  but  take  a  joke  as  we  find  it: 


POSTSCRIPT.  621 

"  That,  therefore,  he  that  runs  races  with  goblin  troopers  is  likely  to 
have  rough  riding  of  it. 

"Ergo,  for  a  country  schoolmaster  to  be  refused  the  hand  of  a  Dutch 
heiress,  is  a  certain  step  to  high  preferment  in  the  state." 

The  cautious  old  gentleman  knit  his  brows  tenfold  closer  after  this  ex- 
planation, being  sorely  puzzled  by  the  ratiocination  of  the  syllogism; 
while,  methought,  the  one  in  pepper-and-salt  eyed  him  with  something  of 
a  triumphant  leer.  At  length,*  he  observed,  that  all  this  was  very  well, 
but  still  he  thought  the  story  a  little  on  the  extravagant — there  were  one 
or  two  points  on  which  he  had  his  doubts. 

"Faith,  sir,"  replied  the  story-teller,  "as  to  that  matter,  I  don't  be- 
lieve one-half  of  it  myself." 

D.  K 


L'ENVOY* 

Go,  little  booke,  God  send  thee  good  passage, 
And  specially  let  this  be  thy  prayere, 
Unto  them  all  that  thee  will  read  or  hear, 
Where  thou  art  wrong,  after  their  help  to  call, 
Thee  to  correct  in  any  part  or  all. 

Chaucee's  Belle  Dame  sans  Mercie. 

concluding  a  second  volume  of  the  Sketch- 
Book,  the  Author  cannot  but  express  his  deep 
sense  of  the  indulgence  with  which  his  first  has 
been  received,  and  of  the  liberal  disposition  that  has 
been  evinced  to  treat  him  with  kindness  as  a  stranger. 
Even  the  critics,  whatever  may  be  said  of  them  by  others, 
he  has  found  to  be  a  singularly  gentle  and  good-natured 
race ;  it  is  true  that  each  has  in  turn  objected  to  some 
one  or  two  articles,  and  that  these  individual  exceptions, 
taken  in  the  aggregate,  would  amount  almost  to  a  total 
condemnation  of  his  work;  but  then  he  has  been  con- 
soled by  observing,  that  what  one  has  particularly  cen- 
sured, another  has  as  particularly  praised ;  and  thus,  the 
encomiums  being  set  off  against  the  objections,  he  finds 
his  work,  upon  the  whole,  commended  far  beyond  its 
deserts. 

♦  Closing  the  second  volume  of  the  London  edition. 


L' ENVOY.  623 

He  is  aware  that  he  runs  a  risk  of  forfeiting  much  of 
this  kind  favor  by  not  following  the  counsel  that  has 
been  liberally  bestowed  upon  him  ;  for  where  abundance 
of  valuable  advice  is  given  gratis,  it  may  seem  a  man's 
own  fault  if  he  should  go  astray.  He  can  only  say,  in  his 
vindication,  that  he  faithfully  determined,  for  a  time,  to 
govern  himself  in  his  second  volume  by  the  opinions 
passed  upon  his  first;  but  he  was  soon  brought  to  a 
stand  by  the  contrariety  of  excellent  counsel.  One  kindly 
advised  him  to  avoid  the  ludicrous ;  another  to  shun  the 
pathetic;  a  third  assured  him  that  he  was  tolerable  at 
description,  but  cautioned  him  to  leave  narrative  alone ; 
while  a  fourth  declared  that  he  had  a  very  pretty  knack 
at  turning  a  story,  and  was'  really  entertaining  when  in  a 
pensive  mood,  but  was  grievously  mistaken  if  he  ima- 
gined himself  to  possess  a  spirit  of  humor. 

Thus  perplexed  by  the  advice  of  his  friends,  who  each 
in  turn  closed  some  particular  path,  but  left  him  all  the 
world  beside  to  range  in,  he  found  that  to  follow  all  their 
counsels  would,  in  fact,  be  to  stand  still.  He  remained 
for  a  time  sadly  embarrassed ;  when,  all  at  once,  the 
thought  struck  him  to  ramble  on  as  he  had  begun ;  that 
his  work  being  miscellaneous,  and  written  for  different 
humors,  it  could  not  be  expected  that  any  one  would  be 
pleased  with  the  whole;  but  that  if  it  should  contain 
something  to  suit  each  reader,  his  end  would  be  com- 
pletely answered.  Few  guests  sit  down  to  a  varied  table 
with  an  equal  appetite  for  every  dish.     One  has  an  ele- 


524  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

gant  horror  of  a  roasted  pig ;  another  holds  a  curry  or  a 
devil  in  utter  abomination ;  a  third  cannot  tolerate  the 
ancient  flavor  of  venison  and  wildfowl ;  and  a  fourth,  of 
truly  masculine  stomach,  looks  with  sovereign  contempt 
on  those  knick-knacks,  here  and  there  dished  up  for  the 
ladies.  Thus  each  article  is  condemned  in  its  turn ;  and 
yet,  amidst  this  variety  of  appetite^,  seldom  does  a  dish 
go  away  from  the  table  without  being  tasted  and  relished 
by  some  one  or  other  of  the  guests. 

With  these  considerations  he  ventures  to  serve  up  this 
second  volume  in  the  same  heterogeneous  way  with  his 
first ;  simply  requesting  the  reader,  if  he  should  find  here 
and  there  something  to  please  him,  to  rest  assured  that 
it  wf>.s  written  expressly  for  intelligent  readers  like  him- 
self;  but  entreating  him,  should  he  find  any  thing  to  dis- 
like, to  tolerate  it,  as  one  of  those  articles  which  the 
author  has  been  obliged  to  write  for  readers  of  a  less 
refined  taste. 

To  be  serious. — The  author  is  conscious  of  the  numer- 
ous faults  and  imperfections  of  his  work  ;  and  well  aware 
how  little  he  is  disciplined  and  accomplished  in  the  arts 
of  authorship.  His  deficiencies  are  also  increased  by  a 
diffidence  arising  from  his  peculiar  situation.  He  finds 
himself  writing  in  a  strange  land,  and  appearing  before  a 
public  which  he  has  been  accustomed,  from  childhood,  to 
regard  with  the  highest  feelings  of  awe  and  reverence. 
He  is  full  of  solicitude  to  deserve  their  approbation,  yet 
finds  that  very  solicitude  continually  embarrassing  hia 


L'ENYOY.  525 

powers,  and  depriving  him  of  that  ease  and  confidence 
which  are  necessary  to  successful  exertion.  Still  the 
kindness  with  which  ho  is  treated  encourages  him  to  go 
on,  hoping  that  in  time  he  may  acquire  a  steadier  foot- 
ing ;  and  thus  he  proceeds,  half  venturing,  half  shrinking, 
surprised  at  his  own  good  fortune,  and  wondering  at  his 
own  temerity. 


APPENDIX. 

NOTES  CONCERNING  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY, 

TowAED  the  end  of  the  sixth  century,  when  Britain,  under  the  domin- 
ion of  the  Saxons,  was  in  a  state  of  barbarism  and  idolatry,  Pope  Greg- 
ory the  Great,  struck  with  the  beauty  of  some  Anglo-Saxon  youths 
exposed  for  sale  in  the  market-place  at  Rome,  conceived  a  fancy  for  the 
race,  and  determined  to  send  missionaries  to  preach  the  gospel  among 
these  comely  but  benighted, islanders.  He  was  encouraged  to  this  by 
learning  that  Bthelbert,  king  of  Itent,  and  the  most  potent  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  princes,  had  married  Bertha,  a  Christian  princess,  only  daughter 
of  the  king  of  Paris,  and  that  she  was  allowed  by  stipulation  the  full  ex- 
ercise of  her  religion. 

The  shrewd  Pontiff  knew  the  influence  of  the  sex  in  matters  of  relig- 
ious faith.  He  forthwith  despatched  Augustine,  a  Roman  monk,  with 
forty  associates,  to  the  court  of  Ethelbert  at  Canterbury,  to  effect  the 
conversion  of  the  king  and  to  obtain  through  him  a  foothold  in  the 
island. 

Ethelbert  received  them  warily,  and  held  a  conference  in  the  open  air; 
being  distrustful  of  foreign  priestcraft,  and  fearful  of  spells  and  magic. 
They  ultimately  succeeded  in  making  him  as  good  a  Christian  as  his  wife; 
the  conversion  of  the  king  of  course  produced  the  conversion  of  his  loyal 
subjects.  The  zeal  and  success  of  Augustine  were  rewarded  by  his  being 
made  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  being  endowed  with  authority  over 
all  the  British  churches. 

One  of  the  most  prominent  converts  was  Segebert  or  Sebert,  king  of  the 
East  Saxons,  a  nephew  of  Ethelbert.     He  reigned  at  London,  of  which 

52.7 


528  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK 

Mellitus,  one  of  the  Roman  monks  who  had  come  over  with  Angustinei, 
was  made  bishop. 

Sebert,  in  605,  in  his  religious  zeal,  founded  a  monastery  by  the  river 
side  to  the  west  of  the  city,  on  the  ruins  of  a  temple  of  Apollo,  being,  in 
fact,  the  origin  of  the  present  pile  of  Westminster  Abbey.  Great  prepa- 
rations were  made  for  the  consecration  of  the  church,  which  was  to  be 
dedicated  to  St.  Peter.  On  the  morning  of  the  appointed  day,  Mellitus, 
the  bishop,  proceeded  with  great  pomp  and  solemnity  to  perform  tho 
ceremony.  On  approaching  the  edifice  he  vras  met  by  a  fisherman,  who 
informed  him  that  it  was  needless  to  proceed,  as  the  ceremony  was  over. 
The  bishop  stared  with  surprise,  when  the  fisherman  went  on  to  relate, 
that  the  night  before,  as  he  was  in  his  boat  on  the  Thames,  St.  Peier 
appeared  to  him,  and  told  him  that  he  intended  to  consecrate  the  church 
himself,  that  very  night.  The  apostle  accordingly  went  into  the  church, 
which  suddenly  became  illuminated.  The  ceremony  was  performed  in 
sumptuous  style,  accompanied  by  strains  of  heavenly  music  and  clouds  of 
fragrant  incense.  After  this,  the  apostle  came  into  the  boat  and  ordered 
the  fisherman  to  cast  his  net.  He  did  so,  and  had  a  miraculous  draught 
of  fishes ;  one  of  which  he  was  commanded  to  present  to  the  bishop,  and 
to  signify  to  him  that  the  apostle  had  relieved  him  from  the  necessity  of 
consecrating  the  church. 

Mellitus  was  a  wary  man,  slow  of  belief,  and  required  confirmation  of 
the  fisherman's  tale.  He  opened  the  church  doors,  and  beheld  wax  can- 
dles, crosses,  holy  water;  oil  sprinkled  in  various  places,  and  various 
other  traces  of  a  grand  ceremonial.  If  he  had  still  any  lingering  doubts, 
they  were  completely  removed  on  the  fisherman's  producing  the  identical 
fish  which  he  had  been  ordered  by  the  apostle  to  present  to  him.  To  re- 
sist this  would  have  been  to  resist  ocular  demonstration.  The  good 
bishop  accordingly  was  convinced  that  the  church  had  actually  been 
consecrated  by  St.  Peter  in  person ;  so  he  reverently  abstained  from  pro- 
ceeding further  in  the  business. 

The  foregoing  tradition  is  said  to  be  the  reason  why  King  Edward 
the  Confessor  chose  this  place  as  the  site  of  a  religious  house  which  he 


APPENDIX.  529 

meant  to  endow.  He  pulled  down  the  old  church  and  built  another  in 
its  place  in  1Q45.  In  this  his  remains  were  deposited  in  a  magnificent 
shrine. 

The  sacred  edifice  again  underwent  modifications,  if  not  a  reconstruc- 
tion, by  Henry  III.,  in  1220,  and  began  to  assume  its  present  appearance. 

Under  Henry  VIII.  it  lost  its  conventual  character,  that  monaj^^h 
turning  the  monks  away,""  and  seizing  upon  the  revenues. 


RELICS   OF  EDWARD  THE  CONFESSOR. 

A  curious  narrative  jsvas  printed  in  1688,  by  one  of  the  choristers  of  the 
cathedral,  who  appears  to  have  been  the  Paul  Pry  of  the  sacred  edifice, 
giving  an  account  of  his  rummaging  among  the  bones  of  Edward  the 
Confessor,  after  they  had  quietly  reposed  in  their  sepulchre  upwards  of 
six  hundred  years,  and  of  his  drawing  forth  the  crucifix  and  golden  chain 
of  the  deceased  monarch.  During  eighteen  years  that  he  had  officiated  in 
the  choir,  it  had  been  a  common  tradition,  he  says,  among  his  brother 
choristers  and  the  gray-headed  servants  of  the  abbey,  that  the  body  of 
King  Edward  was  deposited  in  a  kind  of  chest  or  coffin,  which  was  indis- 
tinctly seen  in  the  upper  part  of  the  shrine  erected  to  his  memory.  None 
of  the  abbey  gossips,  however,  had  ventured  upon  a  nearer  inspection, 
until  the  worthy  narrator,  to  gratify  his  curiosity,  mounted  to  the  coffin 
by  the  aid  of  a  ladder,  and  found  it  to  be  made  of  wood,  apparently  very 
strong  and  firm,  being  secured  by  bands  of  iron. 

Subsequently,  in  1685,  on  taking  down  the  scaffolding  used  in  the  coro- 
nation of  James  II.,  the  coffin  was  found  to  be  broken,  a  hole  appearing 
in  the  lid,  probably  made,  through  accident,  by  the  workmen.  No  one 
ventured,  however,  to  meddle  with  the  sacred  depository  of  royal  dust, 
until,  several  weeks  afterwards,  the  circumstance  came  to  the  knowledge 
of  the  aforesaid  chorister.  He  forthwith  repaired  to  the  abbey  in  com- 
pany with  two  friends,  of  congenial  tastes,  who  were  desirous  of  inspect- 
ing the  tombs.  Procuring  a  ladder,  he  again  mounted  to  the  coffin,  and 
found,  as  had  been  represented,  a  hole  in  the  lid  about  six  inches  long  and 
24 


530  THE  SKEKJH-BOOK 

four  inches  broad,  just  in  front  of  the  left  breast.  Thrusting  in  his  hand, 
and  groping  among  the  bones,  he  drew  from  underneath  the  shoulder  a 
crucifix,  richly  adorned  and  enameled,  affixed  to  a  gold  chain  twenty-four 
inches  long.  These  he  showed  to  his  inquisitive  friends,  who  were  equally 
surprised  with  himseK. 

"At  the  time,"  says  he,  "when- 1  took  the  cross  and  chain  out  of  the 
coffin,  I  drew  the  head  to  the  hole  and  viewed  it,  being  very  sound  and 
firm,  with  the  upper  and  nether  jaws  whole  and  full  of  teeth,  and  a  list 
of  gold  above  an  inch  broad,  in  the  nature  of  a  coronet,  surrounding  the 
temples.  There  was  also  in  the  coffin,  white  linen  and  gold-colored  flow- 
ered silk,  that  looked  indifferent  fresh ;  but  the  least  stress  put  thereto 
showed  it  was  well  nigh  perished.  There  were  all  his  bones,  and  much 
dust  likewise,  which  I  left  as  I  found." 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  a  more  grotesque  lesson  to  human  pride  than 
the  scull  of  Edward  the  Confessor  thus  irreverently  pulled  about  in  its 
coffin  by  a  prying  chorister,  and  brought  to  grin  face  to  face  with  him 
through  a  hole  in  the  lid  ! 

Having  satisfied  his  curiosity,  the  chorister  put  the  crucifix  and  chain 
back  again  into  the  coffin,  and  sought  the  dean,  to  apprise  him  of  his  dis- 
covery. The  dean  not  being  accessible  at  the  time,  and  fearing  that  thb 
"  holy  treasure  "  might  be  taken  away  by  other  hands,  he  got  a  brother 
chorister  to  accompany  him  to  the  shrine  about  two  or  three  hours  after- 
wards, and  in  his  presence  again  drew  forth  the  relics.  These  he  after- 
wards delivered  on  his  knees  to  King  James.  The  king  subsequently  had 
the  old  coffin  inclosed  in  a  new  one  of  great  strength  :  "each  plank  being 
two  inches  thick  and  cramped  together  with  large  iron  wedges,  where  it 
now  remains  (1688)  as  a  testimony  of  his  pious  care,  that  no  abuse  might 
be  offered  to  the  sacred  ashes  therein  deposited." 

As  the  history  of  this  shrine  is  full  of  moral,  I  subjoin  a  description  of 
it  in  modern  times.  "  The  solitary  and  forlorn  shrine,"  says  a  British 
writer,  "now  stands  a  mere  skeleton  of  what  it  was.  A  few  faint  traces 
of  its  sparkling  decorations  inlaid  on  solid  mortar  catch  the  rays  of  the 
sun,  forever  set  on  its  splend^-    *    *    *    *    Qnly  two  of  the  sm-al  pil- 


APPENDIX.  531 

lars  remain.  The  wooden  Ionic  top  is  much  broken,  and  covered  with 
dust.  The  ihosaic  is  picked  away  in  every  part  within  reach  ;  only  the 
lozenges  of  about  a  foot  square  and  five  circular  pieces  of  the  rich  marble 
remain." — Malcolm^  Lond.  recliv. 


INSCRIPTION  ON  A  MONUMENT  ALLUDED  TO  IN  THE 
SKETCH. 

Here  lyes  the  Loyal  Puke  of  Newcastle,  and  his  Duchess  his  second 
wife,  by  whom  he  had  no  issue.  Her  name  was  Margaret  Lucas,  young- 
est sister  to  the  Lord  Lucas  of  Colchester,  a  noble  family  ;  for  all  the 
brothers  were  valiant,  and  all  the  sisters  virtuous.  This  Duchess  was  a 
wise,  witty,  and  learned  lady,  which  her  many  Bookes  do  well  testify  : 
she  was  a  most  virtuous,  and  loving  and  careful  wife,  and  was  with  her 
lord  all  the  time  of  his  banishment  and  miseries,  and  when  he  came 
home,  never  parted  from  him  in  his  solitary  retirement. 


In  the  winter  time,  when  the  days  are  short,  the  service  in  the  after- 
noon is  performed  by  the  light  of  tapers.  The  effect  is  fine  of  the  choir 
partially  lighted  up,  while  the  main  body  of  the  cathedral  and  the  tran- 
septs are  in  profound  and  cavernous  darkness.  The  white  dresses  of  the 
choristers  gleam  amidst  the  deep  brown  of  the  open  slats  and  canopies  ; 
the  partial  illumination  makes  enormous  shadows  from  columns  and 
screens,  and  darting  into  the  surrounding  gloom,  catches  here  and  there 
upon  a  sepulchral  decoration,  or  monumental  efiSgy.  The  swelling  notes 
of  the  organ  accord  well  with  the  scene. 

When  the  service  is  over,  the  dean  is  lighted  to  his  dwelling,  in  the 
old  conventual  part  of  the  pile,  by  the  boys  of  the  choir,  in  their  white 
dresses,  bearing  tapers,  and  the  procession  passes  through  the  abbey  and 
along  the  shadowy  cloisters,  lighting  up  angles  and  arches  and  grim 
sepulchral  monuments,  and  leaving  aU  behind  in  darkness. 


532  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

On  entering  the  cloisters  at  night  from  what  is  called  the  Dean's  Yard, 
the  eye  ranging  through  a  dark  vaulted  passage  catches  a  distant  view  of 
a  white  marble  figure  reclining  on  a  tomb,  on  which  a  strong  glare 
thrown  by  a  gas  light  has  quite  a  spectral  effect.  It  is  a  mural  monu- 
ment of  one  of  the  Pultneys. 


THE   END. 


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